Kingdom Games
by wryter501
Summary: Part 1: Uther declares a trial by combat, open to sorcerers or warriors, the winner to be named heir to the kingdom of Camelot. One sorcerer and one warrior will begin a new destiny. Part 2: Cenred challenges Uther to a second round of games, the winner to rule both kingdoms. Part 3: A third challenge, to anoint a high ruler over all Albion - the conclusion of destiny. AU!
1. A Champion from Ealdor

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 1: A Champion From Ealdor**

Merlin was in the fields when the messenger arrived. All of Ealdor was in the fields, except for the oldest of the old watching the youngest babies and toddlers. They watched the messenger, too, waiting impatiently until the workday was over and the people returned to the torch-lit center of the village. Not even a king's messenger could disrupt a day's work, here. Merlin stood near the back, next to Hunith.

"In the continued absence of an heir apparent, King Uther Pendragon, childless and unwed, declares a trial by combat, open to all comers, sorcerer and warrior alike, the winner to be declared heir to the kingdom of Camelot."

"The winner," scoffed a neighbor who stood near Merlin, a man named Matthew. "That'll be a fight to the death, will it not? Your winner is the last man left alive? No, thanks." There was a grumble of agreement through the crowd, and several turned away.

If any of the inhabitants of Ealdor held such aspirations, it would be news to Merlin.

"There are incentives," the messenger continued, stiff with offended dignity. "The king intends to demonstrate his gratitude to the family and town of each combatant who enters the arena, a bag of grain to equal half the combatant's weight."

The crowd fell silent. Merlin's heart dropped. That was an incentive Ealdor would pay attention to – they couldn't afford not to.

"Why've you come here?" It was Matthew's question. "We're a border town. Contested territory. What does Cenred say about Uther's trial by combat for an heir?"

It was a valid question. Cenred cared nothing for Ealdor, ignoring its cares and concerns. A solid inclusion in the kingdom of Camelot would mean a reliable king to be called on in time of trouble. And in that case, however remote the possibility, the heir would be an Ealdor native.

"Cenred cares not. In the case of a winner from a border town, Uther promises full rights of citizenship for every inhabitant. And Uther expects to shower favor on the hometown of his heir – substantial and lifelong favor."

Several people actually licked their lips. Glances began to nervously dart around.

"Someone should go," someone said.

"Shall we vote?" Matthew proposed.

Hunith snatched belatedly at Merlin's sleeve as he pushed gently to the front. "I will go," he said clearly. In the silence, Hunith's piteous moans were painfully audible.

No one said anything. Torchlight flickered. Through a break between raggedly-clad bodies, Merlin could see Will glaring at him in frustration. But he offered no protest. He knew there was not much point.

Merlin knew in a dispassionate way that he was the obvious choice. If he had not volunteered, he surely would have been voted. _Someone should go_ would inevitably lead to _Merlin should go_. Ealdor held no warriors. And in a kingdom where magic was viewed with distrust, and the open public practice of it rare, Merlin was the oddity in Ealdor. If he volunteered, there would be no resentment, no hard feelings between the village and his parents.

His parents. He could not think of his mother. She would understand, that he did it for her, for them all, for half his weight in grain for the village. One day, she would understand. One day, she might be proud of him. Balinor, if he'd been there, might try to volunteer also. But Balinor, though he had magic also, had not matched Merlin's strength and ability since Merlin's twelfth year. And there was also his father's crippling limp to consider. No, it was a good thing that his father would be away from Ealdor on his hunting trip at least three more days.

By then, Merlin would be in Camelot. By then, Uther might very well have an heir to proclaim.

"Well, son, you're not much to look at," the messenger said, a little taken aback.

"I enter the trial by combat as a sorcerer," Merlin said, not loudly, but his voice still carried to the edge of the crowd in the silence.

The messenger took a step back, as though he expected Merlin to prove his claim in some ostentatious or dangerous way. "Very well," he said at last.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…..

Merlin arrived in Camelot on foot, thumbs hooked in the straps of the pack over his shoulders, mouth hanging open in amazement. He'd never seen so many people, so many houses and shops – and there was the castle. He was pretty sure he could stand and stare at it all day if he was given the chance – but he needed to make himself known to the seneschal, Sir Leon, in preparation for the combatants' feast tonight.

He stopped next to a pair of guards with ceremonial spears and long noseguards on their conical helmets. "Where can I find Sir Leon?" he asked.

"Through the gate, into the side courtyard," he was told.

Following those directions, he came upon a scene of controlled chaos. Red-caped guards, clusters of well-dressed people, groups of poorer-looking folk. It was impossible to guess who might be entering the trial, and who might be taking the opportunity to say goodbye to a loved one, or to gape mawkishly at a dozen people destined to die horribly the next day.

Merlin made his way to the only man seated in the courtyard, a red-caped knight who looked as though he possessed a reliable steadiness as well as several years' experience, with wavy red-blonde hair and beard. Merlin stopped before the plank table laid with several sheets of parchment, inkwell and choice of quills, waiting til the knight looked up.

"Sir Leon?" he said.

"Name," Sir Leon requested, pleasantly enough for someone who was in charge of such a spectacle.

"Merlin of Ealdor."

Sir Leon gave him a quick but critical once-over. "Sorcerer?" he said, commenting obliquely on Merlin's lack of armor or discernible weaponry.

Merlin grinned. "How did you guess?" The knight raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Merlin added hastily, "Sir Knight." He'd have to remember his city manners. He wasn't in Ealdor any more.

"There's a stack of armor and weapons you can use," Sir Leon said, gesturing to the side. Merlin began to turn. "Merlin of Ealdor," Sir Leon said. "I recommend you choose something in the hardened leather line, rather than chainmail. It is lightweight and the color may help you to blend in with your background."

Merlin looked at Leon more closely, saw that the knight had surprised even himself. Why had Sir Leon spoken to help him? Was it because he so clearly had little chance of survival? He pitied Merlin, maybe. "Thank you," Merlin said sincerely.

"You'll be in guest chamber number three," Sir Leon instructed him, once more detached. "The guard at that gateway –" he pointed with the sharp end of the quill, "can point you to your room, as well as to the banquet hall, where you will present yourself at six-bells to be introduced to the court."

"Yes, Sir Knight." Merlin nodded to show he'd understood, and as he turned to start his journey across the courtyard to the stack of armor and weaponry, his shoulder caught the more muscular shoulder of a blonde boy, a few years older and maybe an inch or so shorter, dressed in simple but well-made clothes, without patch or tear or fray, a large pack clearly containing armor over his other shoulder, the hilt of a sword jutting past his hip.

The blonde boy jerked his head in an impatient but wordless command for Merlin to get out of his way.

"Excuse me," Merlin said politely, and the boy was surprised enough to meet Merlin's eyes, his own a deep-sea blue-green. Then Merlin maneuvered out of the boy's way and began to make his way through the press.

"Arthur of Camelot," he heard the blonde boy tell Sir Leon.

**A/N: Okay, those of you who are thinking Hunger Games! – yes, you're right. That's the direction my plot bunny came hopping from, I admit it. Hope you all enjoy where it goes from here… ;)**

**And yes, just today I told someone I only work on one story at a time, but I promise not to neglect "Emrys Strain". Kingdom Games will just have to suffer through updates fewer and further between until Emrys Strain is done…**


	2. The Combatants' Feast

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 2: The Combatants' Feast**

The banquet hall was overwhelming. Guests seated, standing, strolling, arrayed in gorgeous and expensive clothing and jewels, servants with wide trays dipping and ducking through the room – Merlin could hardly bear to watch, so certain was he that a collision and a ghastly mess were both inevitable. Yet he couldn't look away.

A trio of musicians kept up a continuous flow of light and airy tunes. The scents wafting through the air were intoxicating and largely unidentifiable to a village boy like Merlin. He kept his back to the wall, occasionally snagging a piece or fruit or a recognizable tidbit from a passing tray, though the fifteen listed combatants had a separate table prepared for them.

Merlin found the scrutiny exhausting and nerve-wracking. He preferred to keep to the shadows at the edge of the room and watch.

Uther, whom he had never seen before, had a loud voice and a ready laugh, though there was something predatory about his eyes and nose. He was a man in his min-sixties, still appearing in robust good health, though no one could know that for sure. Old Man Phillips had been the same way, and just last month had dropped dead while chopping his own firewood. There had been murmurs, nasty whispers that called to mind the old man's well-known grudge against Merlin, but he had been in full view of several villagers all day that day, and nothing could be proved. One way or the other.

Uther wore Camelot red, his heavy crown, and a collection of medallions on his chest, hanging from thick gold chains of varying length. He lounged at his ease upon a central throne-like chair, Sir Leon at his left hand, and an older man in a blue robe with ear-length white hair at his right.

The king's eyes fell once upon Merlin, who shuddered involuntarily and slipped behind a pillar, edging closer to the combatants' table where he belonged. Snagging a seed-dotted roll from a passing tray, Merlin leaned against the pillar that shaded him from the king's view, and studied his arena-fellows.

There were four women, one a sweet-looking girl in a wispy yellow dress, with long curly honey-colored hair, one a thirty-something brunette, comfortably plump and even motherly, a third a crafty sharp-nosed female of indeterminate age, wearing a blue turban of a color very similar to Merlin's own shirt. The fourth woman was much more ordinary, frightened-looking. All four were certainly sorceresses, though that did not mean they had no knowledge or skill with weapons. There were two others he pegged as magic-users, also, one a robed blonde with horrific scars twisting the left side of his face and his left hand, who walked stiffly and with a perpetual hunch to his shoulders. The other was just as scrawny as Merlin himself, somewhat shorter, with a moustache that did nothing for his buck teeth or bulging eyes.

The warriors, on the other hand, were fairly typical, a handful of swaggering, muscular guys who were nearly indistinguishable from each other. Two looked to be older – pushing forty, even – and one might have been younger than Merlin himself. One had a remarkable expression of calm nobility that Merlin kept checking, wondering if maybe it was a front. A mask that he wore to the ball. And where was that last one, the blonde with the blue-green eyes? Arthur, wasn't it?

"Lurking, are you?" someone remarked from behind Merlin, and he startled so badly the bread flew from his hand. He turned; it was Arthur, with a smirk on his face. "Jumpy, too." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah," Merlin agreed a little breathlessly. "I'm not used to – all this." He waved his hand to indicate the entirety of the sense-assaulting chamber.

Arthur snorted, a derisive sound that Merlin took no offense at. "Try to pay attention, won't you?" he suggested, pointing over Merlin's shoulder.

Sir Leon had risen from his place at the king's side. "Combatants will be called in alphabetical order," he announced. "Please step forward and present yourself to the court for introduction."

Arthur was already moving past Merlin when his name was called, confident that he would be first. He strode down the banquet hall as if he belonged there, and Merlin envied him his grace and poise. He himself would be lucky not to trip and pull two or three of the food-laden trays down upon himself – and the nearest ladies, too, likely enough. At the other end of the room, Arthur performed a correct and mannerly bow to the king, and drifted to the side, where a sweet-faced noble girl with a wealth of curly black hair blushed through her dusky complexion and pretended to ignore him.

The two male sorcerers were next, Cornelius and Edwin. Merlin made no attempt to remember names, but was sure he would know most of them in the arena the next day. His memory was just sharp for details – even the unwanted ones.

Three of the warriors were next, Kanen and Lancelot and Merlin didn't catch the third name, one of the older men, a grinning brown-haired man, and the one with the suspiciously-perpetual expression of gentle nobility. Then came the motherly sorceress, Mary, Merlin himself, and the fourth scared-looking sorceress behind him. He kept his eyes on the hem of Mary's sensible blue dress, and performed a jerky bow to the edge of the high table, escaping as quickly as possible in the opposite direction that Arthur had wandered.

After Merlin was another warrior, the youngest-looking one, Mordred, then the other two sorceresses, the sharp-faced one Nimueh, the soft girl with honey hair Sophia. Then the last three warriors, two of their names Tristan and Val, but Merlin's attention was caught by the sweet-looking honey-haired Sophia, dipping into a smiling courtesy before the king. She glanced up at Merlin as she rose, and he was shocked to glimpse a flash of red in her irises.

That was sidhe magic, he was sure of it. Not as bad as dark magic, but just as unpredictable. For the first time, Merlin faced the realization that one of these fourteen opponents would be the next ruler of Camelot. And even if Ealdor was not to be part of the kingdom, it was close enough to feel the effects of a bad monarch.

Was this such a good idea? he wondered. Uther would gain a strong successor, no doubt of that, but a hunger for power combined with a crown… Merlin shuddered.

Well, if he were not to survive, who would he prefer to sit the throne? Definitely not the sorceress allied with the sidhe. But who else might be good for Camelot? Maybe the one with the noble expression – was his name Lancelot or Kanen?

"Getting enough to eat?" Arthur said behind Merlin, who had sensed his approach this time, and wasn't taken by surprise.

"Why do you care?" Merlin asked curiously.

"I don't," Arthur shrugged. "You just look like getting enough to eat isn't really a regular thing with you."

Merlin grinned. "It's not." But that bag of grain would go a long way toward making sure the other children of Ealdor could not say the same.

Arthur was looking him over, taking his measure. "You carry no weapons," he observed.

"Of course I do," Merlin said. "I'm a sorcerer. My weapon is with me all the time."

Arthur stretched, and a knife flicked into his hand from a sheath concealed in his sleeve. "So's mine," he told Merlin, who laughed. Arthur shook his head, his mouth twisting sideways like he was fighting the half-smile. "I don't know – Merlin, wasn't it? There's something about you, I can't quite put my finger on –"

"I just told you," Merlin said, smiling. "I'm a sorcerer."

Arthur shook his head. "No, that's not it," he said. "Never mind – it'll come to me." He sauntered away from Merlin's side to drape himself over the back of the black-haired girl's chair. Judging from his smile, he was flirting with her. Judging from her smile, he was doing it successfully.

The rest of the feast was a trial in itself for Merlin. Some of the other combatants tried to engage him in conversation, clearly trying to evaluate him as an opponent, while others just as clearly ignored him – he hoped because they'd already decided he posed no threat. The sidhe girl and the motherly Mary paid him no attention, and the scared girl was in her own world, but the other three sorcerers each came to him.

Sharp-faced Nimueh, with startlingly blue eyes – who could have been his younger sister, or his grandmother – sidled close, her smile curving provocatively. "I can _feel_ your power," she murmured in his ear. "If you want to work with me, I know we'd be _perfect_ together."

Merlin stammered around his heart in a throat as dry as sand, and she floated away with a sharp, satisfied backward glance. Both Edwin of the terrible burn-scars and Cornelius of the protruding eyes approached him with greater arrogance, promising their protection if Merlin would loan his strength to theirs initially.

Merlin smiled noncommittally. "I'll think about it," he said. But he knew better than to pledge his strength to the control of another when only one victor would be proclaimed.

The physical fighters by and large overlooked the magic-users entirely, but the noble-eyed warrior paused as he was passing by. "Merlin, wasn't it," he said. Merlin looked into his quiet brown eyes, looked deep there, and saw nothing to support his theory that the man was playing a role to garner sympathy. "Good luck tomorrow, Merlin," he added sincerely.

"You as well," Merlin returned, surprised. "Ah-"

"The name's Lancelot," the young man said. He further surprised Merlin by extending his hand, but looked pleased when Merlin took it. As he drifted on, Merlin thought to himself that he'd do a good turn for Lancelot, if the opportunity came up.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin escaped back to guest chamber three as soon as he could convince himself he would not be missed, and laid himself out on one of the three cots in the room. He did not expect to sleep, but he woke much later to the shuffling footsteps and voices of both his chamber-mates. He rolled over and squinted in the light of the candle in the hand of one of them – ah, Arthur and Lancelot. Merlin smiled sleepily. His luck held.

Both warriors had imbibed no small amount of wine, it appeared, both unsteady on their feet, and with an arm over each other's shoulder that would have been unusual in the light and sobriety of day.

"Who have we got?" Arthur questioned in a loud whisper. Already Merlin recognized that voice.

The candle lifted. "It's Merlin," Lancelot replied. "That tall skinny sorcerer."

"Think he'll enchant us while we sleep?" Arthur said, lowering himself to the cot next to Merlin.

"No, not this one," Lancelot said, heading for the furthest cot.

"Oi," Merlin said, "I am awake, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Arthur and Lancelot began removing their boots and outer clothing, readying for what might be the last night of their lives.

"No, it was bandits," Lancelot said, evidently continuing whatever story he'd been telling Arthur. "The whole village was razed by the time I returned."

"And your family?" Arthur said.

Lancelot's brief silence was sufficient answer. "So I learned swordplay," the noble-faced warrior concluded. "I thought, my life is forfeit anyway – if I'd been at home I'd have been killed, too. The least I can do is spend it making sure that happens to no one else. When Uther's offer of the kingdom to the victor came, it seemed a natural conclusion to my life – and I joined the contest."

Arthur grunted, and both warriors stretched out on their cots, arranging their blankets over them.

"Arthur, you're from Camelot, aren't you?" Merlin spoke into the silence. "Why didn't Uther just name one of his knights his heir? Sir Leon seems he would make a good king."

Arthur, sprawled on his back, tucked one hand under his head. "Uther was afraid that such a choice would cause resentment among the knights, might spark rebellion against the heir so named later on," he said. "He needs those ranks united in protection of the crown. Also, think you any of these knights would fail to volunteer, were they so allowed? This is exactly the sort of occasion they train for – contests to prove strength and nobility, to lay their lives down for the kingdom."

Merlin considered that. Yes, he supposed Arthur was right. He could understand that motivation himself, after all, though his life was offered on a much smaller scale.

"_And_," Arthur added, "Uther clears the board of any significant threat to the heir in one day. Anyone with the ambition or ability to stage a coup is here to compete."

"I didn't think of it like that," Merlin said, surprised.

"Why are you here then, Arthur?" Lancelot said. The dark and the drink and the impending death hanging over all three of them was forging a connection, which kept slumber at bay and encouraged them to conversation. "You're just that ambitious?"

There was a long pause, in which Arthur didn't speak. Deciding, Merlin suspected, if he trusted them. Then Arthur said, "My father was a knight."

"Ah, we're in the presence of noble blood," Lancelot teased. "Why didn't you become a knight, then?"

"My mother was a commoner." Another long pause.

Merlin could relate – to be stuck between two worlds, not truly belonging to either… he himself had never felt at home in his village, and his father the only sorcerer he'd ever been in company with. He wished he'd gotten the chance to say goodbye.

"My father taught me everything he knew," Arthur continued. "He taught me horsemanship and swordsmanship, made sure I earned my education. He taught me of loyalty and justice, freedom and honor."

"He sounds…" Merlin couldn't think of a good word. Arthur's father sounded much like Balinor, though with understandable differences of class and station.

"He died last year," Arthur said.

"And your mother?" Merlin asked, thinking of Hunith with a pain in his heart and a sudden childish homesickness.

"She understand," Arthur said. "I honor his memory and training in a way that driving a cart for the rest of my life cannot."

Merlin shivered. It was very close to what he'd said to his own mother. _I'm useless here,_ he'd said, that last night, as Hunith sat holding his hand, keenly reluctant to let go. _My magic is confined, resented, suspected. My gift will never be worth anything in Ealdor_.

_Is it worth one bag of grain?_ his mother had whispered.

_Many men are worth far less_, he'd answered.

"Right, then, Merlin, your turn," Arthur said, kicking out his bare foot so that it connected with the side of Merlin's face.

"Get off, that's disgusting!" Merlin protested.

"Where is Ealdor, anyway?" Lancelot asked from his cot in the corner.

"On the border of Cenred's kingdom," Merlin said. "It's a small village. Farms, mostly, a few cows. A hay cart."

"So you wanted to travel, see the big city?" Arthur said. "Take the throne?"

"Oh, no, I won't be the heir," Merlin said. The candle flickered; it had burned very low. "I can't keep my room clean or my chores in order, there's no way I'm capable of running a kingdom. I have one friend at home. A crown prince should be loved by all."

"Then why are you here?" Arthur's voice was puzzled.

"I came for the grain. Half my weight – that's a lot for a village the size of Ealdor."

Each warrior was upright in his bed. "They sent you as a _sacrifice_?" Lancelot said, shocked.

"No, of course not," Merlin defended his hometown. "I volunteered."

Silence. Several minutes passed. Lancelot eased back down, thoughtful. Arthur said, "When I said that there was something about you, Merlin… I've figured what it is."

"And what is it?" Merlin said.

"You're an idiot." The word was belied by the grudging respect in Arthur's tone.

Merlin laughed, and the candle guttered out.


	3. Those About to Die

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 3: Those About to Die**

Merlin woke up feeling sick to his stomach. He sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes on the chamber pot tucked underneath of the next bed, breathing to calm himself down. If vomiting could alleviate the feeling, he'd cheerfully retch his guts out in front of the other two young men, but it wasn't due to something he'd eaten at the feast.

_Everyone dies_, he told himself. Usually it's just more – unexpected. Sudden. He swallowed dryly. His death today was likely to be _very_ sudden indeed. Was it too much to hope it might also be relatively painless? And quick?

It seemed to him that the two warriors who shared the room might be considering the same sort of question. Arthur and Lancelot rose and dressed and armed themselves with a grim sort of silence that made Merlin both want to say something to break it, and doubt entirely that he had anything worthwhile to say.

As he was buckling the straps of the dark leather vest over his blue cotton shirt, cinching back to front so tightly there were no gaps in either side, the armor protecting him from neck to navel, a small piece of metal dropped from a sort of hidden slit-pocket in the side, ringing on the stone floor. Arthur bent to retrieve the object, and straightened holding a throwing star between thumb and forefinger, the sharp jagged arms spiraling out from the center glinting in the dawn light coming in at the window.

"Merlin," Arthur said. "I'm surprised you have such a thing." He sounded a little disappointed. Lancelot glanced over and his eyebrows went up.

"I am too," Merlin said, twisting to try to see the pocket where the star had been hidden. "Wonder whose that is? Do you suppose I should try to find the owner to return it?" Or maybe the leather armor was for general use, and the throwing star part of the armory inventory. He bent to pick up the pack he'd carried into Camelot, though he probably wouldn't need it anymore. They weren't allowed such things in the arena, only weaponry and armor, and he couldn't claim it was either. Maybe he could find someone to give it to who needed it.

"Idiot," Arthur said.

"What?"

Arthur took hold of his shoulder and turned him, slipping the throwing star back into its hidden pocket. "Take it with you," he said. "You may need it."

"I don't know how to use something like that," Merlin objected. "Why don't you take it? Or Lancelot?"

Lancelot said, "You keep it, Merlin. For luck."

They were all ready at once, then. Arthur said, "Good luck to you fellows. Really, I mean it."

"It has been a privilege for me," Lancelot said, more slowly, "meeting the two of you."

They shuffled their boots a moment self-consciously, before Merlin offered, "May the best man win."

At that, both warriors met each others eyes, and simultaneously reached to clasp hands. "If not I, then you," Lancelot said.

Arthur tried to pull back on his half-smile, and didn't quite succeed. "If not I, then you," he said.

Merlin decided then and there that either one of these young warriors would make an excellent king, and he would do his damndest to see that one or the other finished the victor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The combatants assembled in the courtyard where they'd given their names to Sir Leon the previous day, to discover that the frightened, plain-looking sorceress had fled in the night. The grinning brown-haired warrior was also absent, having expired while he slept. The court physician was even now tending to the body. Merlin shivered, wondering who that man's chamber-mates had been. He avoided meeting the eyes of the other combatants.

"The offer of grain for your family is contingent upon your entry into the arena," Sir Leon reminded the crowd of combatants. He eyed them, then said, "Come."

Red-cloaked knights fell into place around them as they set off down the street through the lower town, everyone in the world, it seemed to Merlin, turning out to gawk at them. He made sure to walk very close behind the biggest warrior, a man in full body armor draped with a green and yellow knee-length tunic, his brown hair and beard the same length, a device of three snakes upon his shield. Fewer people would notice him behind this warrior.

The path through the city gate that led to the enormous circular amphitheatre upon the plain was lined with people. Merlin kept his eyes on the toes of his boots, already beginning to sweat beneath the stiff leather hauberk. Probably everyone in the five kingdoms who could possibly manage to come was here. There were shouts of luck wished, names of favorite champions called. No one said the name "Merlin."

Sir Leon led them in through a small side entrance, down a long narrow corridor. Merlin imagined the tiered amphitheatre seating that probably rose high above their heads, and trod on the heel of one of the older warriors, who cast a vicious glare over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Merlin whispered.

In the lead, Leon turned and stopped at a hall-crossing, waiting til they were all halted and he held their attention. "The arena has been –" he cleared his throat, "decorated, with obstacles designed to aid or shelter you. You will be placed at intervals, and at the sound of the horn will exit your gateway. The victor, as you know, is the last one left alive, but please bear in mind that your future citizens will be watching your every move."

Beside Merlin, the last warrior whose name he did not recall, began to retreat, bumping into blue-turbaned Nimueh and chainmail-clad Mordred before backing through the guards. He stared for a minute back into their faces, then threw down his shield, turned and strode away. Mary, the plump motherly sorceress, snorted, and Sophia of the honey hair and red eyes giggled.

"Our odds just improved," said one of the warriors, dressed in black, with a high helm showing only tiny slits where his eyes would be. Merlin cast a glance around and decided it was Tristan, then mentally kicked himself. Why would he want to remember their names?

Sir Leon was not amused. "Now is the last chance you will be given to withdraw," he said. No one moved. Leon drew out his list and began to read names, assigning each combatant to the knight who would take them to their position and subsequently ensure that they entered the arena at the appointed time. Lancelot and Arthur were taken to the left, along with Tristan, Mary, and Val. Sophia, carrying a walking staff of white wood, a crystal entangled in delicate carvery at the upright end, led the others to the left.

Merlin saw Arthur turn at the first arena-ward hallway to the right, while the others continued down the curving corridor, out of sight. He didn't know whether to be glad or sorry that the golden-haired warrior would be so close to him when the horn sounded.

The penultimate name was recited, and Merlin found himself standing alone with Sir Leon. "You're with me," Leon said, unnecessarily but kindly, and turned to continue down the original corridor toward the center of the amphitheatre.

"Are sorcerers allowed to carry weapons?" Merlin said, touching the pocket where the star rested. The sound of their boots echoed against the stone walls.

Sir Leon glanced at him. "Of course," he said. He hesitated, then, with the air of one explaining a rule rather than giving advice, he added, "As a warrior is also allowed to perform magic."

Ah. That complicated things. Merlin wondered which of the warriors might be capable of sorcery. Not Lancelot or Arthur, he was pretty sure they would have mentioned it, even though it would be giving away an advantage to reveal such a talent.

"Do you have anyone you hope will win?" Merlin asked Sir Leon, remembering to add, "m'lord?"

Sir Leon cast him a look half incredulous, half confused. "I am sure many members of the court picked favorites at the banquet yestereve," he said.

"But you did not, m'lord?" Merlin said. He thought he might be talking from sheer nervousness, but it didn't truly matter. He would die here today, in a matter of minutes or hours, maybe, and would never see or speak to another citizen of Camelot again. And Merlin was nothing if not curious.

"There are several combatants who would make a fine heir for Uther," Sir Leon allowed. "I, of course, will be expected to swear fealty to the winner in spite of personal prejudices. So I try not to form any."

"I see," Merlin said. They reached the end of the corridor, where a sand-strewn ramp led upward to the sunlight. That was wise of Sir Leon, he thought. That way, he would not be disappointed if someone he hoped would win were killed, or resentful if the victor was someone he hadn't approved of personally. "Yes, I can see where that might prove awkward."

He shrugged out of his pack. "Sir Leon, do you mind," he said, shy of asking a knight of the realm to do a favor for a common farmer's lad, "if you know of anyone who has a need for such a thing," he held out the pack and Leon took it uncertainly, "please give this to them – or, anyone who can use it, really."

"Don't you mean, please hold this until I return?" The red-cloaked knight's words were gently ironic, and Merlin smiled.

"Oh, no, I won't be needing it anymore. I won't be coming back to reclaim it. Although," he hesitated, wondering how far the knight might be willing to extend the favor, "I don't suppose, perhaps it could be sent back home, along with the grain? I'm sure someone there will need it for something." At the very least, he thought, his mother would be glad to have it back. Probably. When she stopped weeping. He swallowed hard.

Leon, still staring, took a better hold of the pack, and nodded. Merlin squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. They listened to the crowd audible from their unseen seats in the amphitheatre, excited and anticipating the spectacle. Merlin's heart was thundering.

"I also want to say thank you, Sir Leon," Merlin said, aware that he might be saying his last words. "You've treated us with grace and respect, and I, for one, appreciate that. I hope you are happy in the heir you must serve."

He stepped forward til the toes of his boots were on the edge of the ramp, gazing up at the square of blue visible, wanting his eyes to adjust to as much brightness as possible before he ran up into the sunlight to meet his destiny.

"Merlin of Ealdor," Sir Leon said behind him, and Merlin shifted to let the knight know he'd heard, without looking back. "Good luck to you."

The horn sounded, and Merlin started up the ramp.

**A/N: Okay, let me know if this should stay in Merlin's POV or shift back and forth between his and Arthur's?**


	4. Valiant

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 4: Valiant**

Merlin had a split second to wonder what it was, exactly, that he planned to do when he reached the arena at the top of the ramp, when his boot slipped on the sand and he went down, banging his right elbow hard enough to force a grunt from his lungs.

The ramp began moving under him, rising in place to join the arena floor and block his gateway as a potential means of retreat.

He made no attempt to gain his feet while he was riding the ramp, enthralled instead with his first view of the arena.

The size was immense. Ealdor and all its fields as well as a decent-sized chunk of forest might have fit inside it. He had a vague impression of the mass and populace in the levels of the stands. Half a dozen monolithic statues dotted the sandy plain, with a couple dozen more that were double life-size, people and creatures on pedestals in stone.

A flash of light shot past him, close enough to ruffle his hair with the breeze. He turned his head to the left, his neck somehow stiff and creaky. Spells shot visibly across the arena, forming a web of color that vanished and reformed as quick as thought. He saw Sophia, the honey-haired giggler, crouched in her wispy yellow dress, shrieking like a banshee, shooting thick blue lines of power from the end of her staff.

Incongruously, amid the chaotic spellwork, mage-light glinting off armor and blades, Mordred the youngest and Kanen the short and wiry of the older two warriors fought grimly together, trading blows hard and fast. Mordred reeled back, stumbling, flinging one hand out to gesture – a slender shape rose from the ground nearby and flew at Kanen hard enough to knock the shield off his arm.

Merlin turned his head to the right, his head beginning to pound from the scores of spells and curses being flung haphazardly around the arena. Arthur? Lancelot? – there!

About sixty yards away, straight across from Merlin, he glimpsed Lancelot's orange tunic, and blinked twice before realizing that his friend was, indeed, fighting a statue. A horse or unicorn, some four-legged equine creature, brought to life by a spell, no doubt, to keep the warriors occupied, or to defend a sorcerer's back. Lancelot's sword struck the stone twice, with no effect.

Merlin took a deep, sandy breath, and spoke. No one would hear him, no one would notice – no one paid him any attention, not reckoning him a threat. He uttered, "_Bregdan anweald gafeluec_," projecting the spell to cross the distance between him. A brief blue fire lit Lancelot's weapon, and his next blow carved a giant chunk of rock from the statue. At least now he could hold his own.

Merlin looked to the side, to see Arthur, dressed in Camelot red, carrying a rampant dragon as his shield-symbol, battling the taller green-and-yellow Val. Merlin squinted against the glare of sun on sand, and the yellow glare resolved into a glow around his shield. Enchanted, Merlin was sure of it. For what purpose? For defense?

He struggled to his knees as a blow from Val's shield knocked Arthur onto his back – and immediately had to duck two curses shot in his direction. He rolled, coming to his feet, and sprinted away from the circle, toward the edge of the arena, taking cover behind the square base of one of the towering statues.

His pulse was thundering through his body, making his hands shake and his throat constrict. He crept along the side of the stone, risking a quick glance around the corner. Val had Arthur pinned against the statue's base, crushing him with his shield. His posture, his expression – whatever enchantment his shield held, it was meant for offense. What could Merlin do? Wait until the trap was sprung, then somehow hope to counter the threat in time?

Arthur shoved Val so the other knight staggered back a few steps, and Merlin made his choice, once again whispering the spell. "_Berbey odothey arisan quickan_!" he hissed, triggering the enchanted trap early, and the snakes on the shield came to life.

Despite Val's consternation at the early release of his creatures, he immediately urged them to attack, to give himself a breather, and Arthur was forced to retreat.

With the attention of both warriors on the serpents, Merlin steeled himself to approach Val from behind.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Sword in hand, helm in place over the hood of his chainmail tunic, Arthur darted up the ramp, and crouched to a kneeling position behind his shield. He'd been inside the arena twice before, and ignored the addition of the _decorations_ Sir Leon had mentioned in order to assess the threats present.

The magic-users were focusing on each other at present. Of course they would see each other as the greatest threat. Arthur noted with a distant but rare regret that the skinny sorcerer with shaggy black hair, the honest idiot, Merlin to Arthur's immediate left, was already down. Hadn't even made it off the ramp.

Arthur turned his head. The next combatant on his right was the tall warrior in green and yellow. Val. He would come after Arthur, and fast.

Arthur's sword flashed, almost of its own accord, drawn to defend against Val's slash at Arthur's shins. Arthur settled back, calm now that battle was drawn, resting his sword atop his shield. He saw Val's eyes narrow through the eyeslits of his helm.

"Aaaagh!" Val roared, charging to the attack. Arthur interrupted his impetus with an over-handed strike, which slid off the green-and-yellow three-snake sigil, and took the offensive with his own slash toward Val's shins, smoothly following through with a falling stroke.

He used his shield to shift Val's attack away, then threw up his sword horizontally at eye level to catch another downward swing. Val pushed him back, shield to shield, and they disengaged to circle each other warily, each having caught a little of the measure of the other. _He's strong_, Arthur thought, swinging his sword in a circle at his side, then resting it atop his shield once again in readiness, _but overconfident. Because he's sure of his strength and skill, or because_ –

Their swords met once again, crossing in midair between their faces, and Val shoved Arthur off-balance with his shield again. The other warrior tried to press his advantage, slashing from the right, from the left, Arthur's shield deflecting the blows – _clang_! and _clang_! again. Their blades clashed again, and as Val allowed his to slide off, Arthur spun in a full circle to bring the full force of a backhand blow to bear on his opponent, but the three-snake shield was up in time.

"Go on!" He heard the single disconnected shout from someone above them in the stands as each attempted a falling overhead blow, but each blade rebounded from the other's shield.

This wasn't working. Arthur saw an opening, and drove the toe of his boot into the other's mail-covered stomach, and managed to land a glancing blow to Val's head that knocked his helmet right off. The helm went bouncing, rolling across the sand. Arthur was aware that his breath burned in his lungs, his hair dripped sweat inside his own helmet.

He spun his sword at his side, crouched in readiness. Val, his face now bare, grimaced dreadfully as he rushed him, knocking Arthur's sword aside with his shield as he leaned into the hacking blows - Arthur blocked and blocked and blocked.

Then Val tread heavily on Arthur's left foot, slamming his shield upward into Arthur's face. He felt himself reel backward, falling too swiftly to catch himself. There was a diabolically eager expression on the green-and-yellow warrior's face as he planted his foot on Arthur's shield, trapping his left arm. Arthur swung at him to force Val's attention to his sword, but the blow was deflected off the shield. Val jabbed down with his own blade, and Arthur abandoned the shield to roll away, coming to his feet.

The crowd gasped, but whether it was for their fight or for something else, he didn't know. He gasped, trying to regain his breath, dancing in a backward circle around his opponent. He blocked an overhand blow from the right, blocked a low slash at his legs from the left – and knew his mistake the minute his blade darted to meet the other. He tried to pull back, but Val stomped on the point of the blade and the hilt snapped from Arthur's hand.

He leaped back to avoid what his father would have called a wild _I've-won_ swing, then lunged forward to grapple with the other warrior more closely, one arm gripping Val's shield, the other grasping the hilt of the remaining sword between them. Val pushed him again, and he realized his second mistake – he'd been maneuvered too close to one of the monoliths, and his back slammed into the statue's base.

Reacting, he shoved Val back, and a yellow glow bloomed from the other warrior. The blood ran cold in Arthur's veins as two of the snakes from the shield _moved_, their heads swaying into being. _Oh, damn. Sorcery._

"No, I did not call you!" Val exclaimed. He met Arthur's horrified gaze briefly, then threw back his head and laughed. The snakes separated from the shield, their sinuous bodies thick as Arthur's wrist following until they dropped to the sand.

"Strike him!" Val hissed. "Kill him!"

He recognized Val's desperation, resorting to trickery to win out against him, and didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened. He backed away, slipping his sleeve-knife out. The snakes struck, left-right, and he retreated, waiting, watching his timing – at least the presence of the snakes prevented Val from rushing him again – until the two snakes struck simultaneously. Arthur slashed, cutting off two heads with the knife at once.

His retreat had taken him past a mace abandoned on the ground – _a mace? that's no use against a sword, much too heavy and slow!_ Even as the fanged heads flew and the thick green bodies coiled and splashed blood on the sand, Arthur scooped up the mace in his left hand and hurled it with all his strength at Val, to throw off his charge, his balance.

Val swerved violently and the mace tumbled end over end past his shoulder, only to collide with someone else Arthur didn't see until too late, another combatant who'd come up behind Val, a bareheaded boy with a dark vest and blue sleeves.

The mace glanced off Merlin's shoulder, the impact sending him skidding to the ground, teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

_Ah, hells_! Arthur leaped forward, spotting the momentary opening to his left. As Val swung again he ducked, then drove his dagger into Val's unprotected armpit. Val reeled, the sword dropping, and landed atop Arthur, the edge of his shield pushing Arthur's helmet up so he couldn't see.

His breath hissed in his teeth. He yanked the knife back, stabbed unseeing at the body pinning him to the sand, again and again until the yellow and green warrior was motionless.

His panting and his heartbeat thundered through the close blinding metal of his dislodged helmet. Merlin - either deeply duplicitous or vulnerably naïve. His momentary surge of relief that Merlin had somehow survived the first minute was swallowed up by the guilty despair that it had been his weapon, after all, to cause Merlin to fall.

**A/N: I hereby disavow any previous knowledge of caldera32's story "Bound Together" – which is awesome and beyond the scope I have in mind for Kingdom Games… but there are similarities, unintentional I assure all of you… **

**Also, I suppose I should clarify, for those who didn't know, the two spells Merlin uses are from season 1 ep.5 "Lancelot" and ep.2 "Valiant". I've decided not to compose any new spells but use ones from the series where at all relevant (for instance, I know the spell for Lancelot is meant for a spear, not a sword… just roll with it…).**


	5. The Black Warrior

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 5: The Black Warrior**

Merlin kept his eyes on Arthur, struggling under the green-and-yellow-clad warrior, until both of them were still.

"Arthur," he choked out, breathed sand into his nose and sneezed, sending stabbing pains from his right shoulder down his arm, up his neck, through his body. He sneezed again, coughed until his eyes watered, then raised his head and forced out, "Arthur!"

Val moved, rolling off the warrior pinned beneath him, and for a moment Merlin's heart froze in his chest. Then Val's body twisted and flopped over, and Merlin could see Arthur more clearly, panting for breath.

Merlin made it to his knees, glancing around them for any other imminent threats, hoping the other combatants were suitably preoccupied. He concentrated momentarily, whispered a few words, and a shield sprang up between him and Arthur and the rest of the field. It was inverted, invisible, and so would not draw the attention of the other magic-wielders unless they were searching for it, but would deflect any stray curses or spells, as well as all but the keenest of glances. What it would not do, however, was stop anything more physical, like projectile weapons, or the other combatants themselves.

Merlin hugged his right arm to his body to keep it from moving about. "Arthur," he repeated, urgently.

The golden-haired warrior scrambled to his feet, casting about him for his sword, the bloody knife still in his hand. He bent to seize Val's sword, as the closest to him, then paused, still kneeling, sword prone on the arena floor. He looked up at Merlin, who couldn't see his eyes through the slits of the helmet. Then he reached up and knocked the visor back, revealing his familiar reluctant half-smile.

"Merlin," he said. "I thought you were dead – twice!"

"Well, not yet," Merlin said. "Are you hurt?"

"No, but you are." Arthur straightened, carrying Val's sword as he approached Merlin, his eyes scanning the rest of the arena.

His step inexplicably quickened to a full run, as he raised the sword, face twisting into a battle-grimace. "Down!" he bellowed, and Merlin dropped, tucking his injured arm between his chest and knees, making himself as small as possible.

Steel-on-steel rang above him. He glanced under his elbow – a second pair of greaves danced and shuffled behind him, close enough to touch. He shouted, shoving his hand and his magic toward those greaves, and the warrior stumbled back. In the same instant, Merlin threw himself to the side, rolling out of Arthur's way, coming up against the base of the statue where Val had pinned Arthur only moments before.

It was the warrior in black, one of the older two – Tristan, Merlin thought. The one who'd appreciated the improvement of his odds at the last warrior's forfeit. He fought without a shield, wielding a sword nearly a foot longer than Arthur's, heavier and wider. He used a double-handed grip which gave him the advantage of strength and reach, but even a farm boy like Merlin could see how such a fighting style might potentially leave him open to attack.

Arthur caught the first strike on his shield, then the blows fell thick and fast, falling from above - left, right, left – forcing Arthur to give ground, forcing him to stay on the defensive, to use his shield alone. Another falling blow, then left, right, downward strike – and Arthur went down on one knee.

Rallying, he pushed Tristan back, but as he rose, Tristan's hilt connected with Arthur's helmet, sending him staggering.

"Come on, Arthur!" Merlin shouted. He readied himself to cast a spell, the only one he knew which might help a warrior in a swordfight – one that was usually used by blacksmiths, to perfect the aim of the falling tool, to lend unending strength to the arms and body until the task was complete, but paused.

Would that be unfair to Arthur? Would he not prefer to win the fight himself? Would he tell Merlin to stay out of it, if he could? Interfering in a duel was risky at best, casting a spell in such a fluid situation could have many unforeseen consequences, could potentially work against its user or intended recipient.

Arthur sidestepped a swipe to his shins, then caught two more blows on his shield, left then right. Tristan's tactics were clearly to overwhelm his opponent with brute strength, wear them down. The two warriors disengaged, Tristan spinning to the left while Arthur whirled to his right, managing to deliver a underhand blow, a low slash. Tristan caught the strike on his sword and slung the connected weapons around counter-clockwise.

Tristan kicked Arthur in the chest, knocking him down. Merlin rose to one knee, but Arthur rolled away from a killing blow. Merlin determined he would prevent such a blow, freeze the weapon in midair, slow time and throw himself in the way, if he had to. He would protect Arthur from any other treachery, any other sorcery – but the battle was Arthur's to win, not to have handed to him.

"One well-aimed blow!" Merlin shrieked at Arthur.

Arthur went down on one knee, blocking blow after blow with his shield – _how that must hurt his left arm_! Merlin thought. He'd lost count of how many of those full-strength, double-handed hits had landed.

Arthur suddenly lunged up, and Merlin was sure his strike had met its target. "Yes!" Merlin exulted.

But Tristan was unfazed. He attacked again, forcing Arthur down to his knee, then kicked his helmet right off his head. The crowd in the stands groaned collectively as Merlin gasped.

Arthur leaped up, executing his own falling blow from above, which was caught on Tristan's sword, then blocked a sweeping head-lop blow from the right. Arthur hit Tristan in the helmet with his shield, knocking him back.

_What stamina he has_, Merlin thought, admiring the warrior with the red tunic, _what courage and strength_!

Tristan blocked Arthur's strike and regained his feet, Arthur leaped back from a slash at his chest. Their swords met overhead, down low, crossing in a t-shaped form. Tristan elbowed Arthur away, and caught his sword again.

A one-handed blow simply could not match the two-handed grip Tristan used, Merlin realized, his heart sinking.

Arthur trapped Tristan's long, heavy sword between his own and his shield momentarily, but was thrown off and had to dodge another swipe at his chest. They crouched and circled. Arthur leaped back from another blow, caught a second on his shield, then jammed his blade right into Tristan's chest – the warrior in black shuddered and staggered back.

Merlin was on his feet. _Yes! Surely now the fight is Arthur's_! Arthur spun his sword in a circle next to his side, still wary until victory was sure.

And Tristan attacked again. Those two-handed blows, left, right, as though his strength was untapped, his body unbroken.

"The sword went in, I'm sure of it!" he whispered fiercely to himself. He concentrated, focused his vision, and realized that Tristan's armor was imbued with a charm of magic, shielding him from harm. Merlin clenched his teeth – _why didn't I think of that? Is Arthur the only warrior who does not have a single benefit of sorcery also?_

Arthur used his shield, then his sword, to block the blows, but staggered back as Tristan aimed two more slashes to his shins. He jumped back again from a cut to the chest, parried, then ducked another blow as his own sword was knocked away. In a flurry of offense, he landed a strike on Tristan's helm, kicked him back, drove at him, knocking Tristan's sword aside. _This is the last of his strength_, Merlin worried, _and he can't touch Tristan!_

Tristan swung to the left, to the right, Arthur ducked and spun as Tristan off-balanced, then as the two swords clashed once again, Arthur slammed his rampant-dragon shield into Tristan's chest. He spun to bring a full-strength swing to bear, hit Tristan so hard the shield knocked the black warrior's helm off completely.

The crowd beyond them groaned, in disappointment or sympathy, Merlin didn't know. And didn't care.

"AAAGH!" Tristan roared, aiming two blows at Arthur's head, sending him once again to his knees. He knocked the sword from Arthur's hand and beat on the dragon shield as though he was chopping wood. Merlin winced, readied his magic to aid Arthur – and Tristan's sword stuck in the edge of Arthur's sword. He jerked, trying to free his weapon, and Arthur released the shield, kicking Tristan back.

Unarmed, and undefended, he scrambled for his weapon, several yards away on the sandy arena floor. Tristan yanked his sword free from Arthur's shield and came at Arthur's back, raising his blade over his head – and Merlin raised his hand – and Tristan's body jerked, his mouth opening in a grimace of pain and horror.

Arthur and Merlin both stared at the eight inches of blade protruding from Tristan's chest, but only Merlin saw the faint blue gleam on the metal. Tristan fell to his knees, revealing the only warrior in an orange tunic. Lancelot slid his sword free as Tristan's body tumbled to the sand.

Arthur gave him a weary salute, and Lancelot nodded, both deciding in the same instant to turn away from each other to seek other opponents. Lancelot sprinted to the next towering statue, crouched to check around the corner of the base, then disappeared from view. Arthur struggled to his feet and turned to come back to Merlin, but froze mid-step.

Merlin started up, sure that somehow a curse or spell had managed to penetrate his shield, but he caught a flutter of blue out of the corner of his eye before motherly Mary in her sensible blue dress stepped into view. She flicked her fingers, and Merlin's body was slammed into the stone behind him, so hard he thought the stone would melt through his clothing and into the pores of his skin.

"It was a very nice shield, young man," she said, a favorite aunt giving a compliment to a doting nephew. "More than I expected from you, actually. I just had to come over here to see for myself what you were protecting, or if you were just hiding."

There was an odd quality to her voice, a singsong sway to it, her words in rhythm with her gait as she paced toward Arthur, himself a frozen statue. She began to hum.

Merlin shook his head to clear it, raised his left hand to cover one ear. It wasn't a painfully high pitch, but rather a low vibrating hum, that set his blood and bones to thrumming unpleasantly out of synchronization with his heartbeat and breathing.

With precision and almost with apology, Mary drew a dagger from her belt. She was six steps away from Arthur. Five. She stepped over the body of the warrior in black.

Merlin tried to lift his hand, to push her away as he'd done to Tristan, to knock her flying across the arena if he could – and found he could not touch her. She threw a mocking glance over her shoulder, and interrupted her disturbing hum to make a "tsk"ing sound at him between her teeth.

He shifted his gaze and concentrated, and it was Arthur who was sent flying, pulled back toward Merlin, dragged across the sand. His body remained motionless, though the horror in his green-blue eyes told the sorcerer that he was still acutely aware.

Mary was unprepared for the sudden departure of her victim. She hissed and threw the knife at Arthur's prostrate body. Merlin froze it without a thought, inches from Arthur's face, and reversed the spell Mary had used to aim it, sending it flying back along its path toward her.

Knowing she would merely freeze the blade in place as he had done, Merlin forced his hand to his side, to the hidden pocket and the throwing star. He cut his thumb on the sharp edge as he drew it clumsily out – _so slow! Faster, or you die! Arthur dies! _– and flung it at the sorceress, sending it instinctively toward the most vulnerable place of her life force.

Mary gasped, then choked, as the star struck, stuck at the base of her throat. She clawed at the bit of metal, mixing blood from her fingers with the blood that poured from her severed neck. Her eyes were on Merlin, wide with shock and impending death. She choked again, trying to speak, and collapsed to her knees, her momentum carrying her forward til she lay unmoving on the sand.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As the sorceress stilled, Arthur's limbs were freed and he moved, sitting up and scrambling back crab-fashion to stop at Merlin's side in the cover of the enormous statue.

"It's a helluva contest," he gasped, dropping his weapons in the sand by his side, and reaching up to drag the cowl of his mail shirt down. A quick glance told him that though the rest of the arena saw action, their little corner was quiet. For the moment.

"We're still alive," Merlin said, amazingly optimistic, and Arthur took courage from that.

"I said you might need that star," Arthur reminded the young man. "Are you hurt badly?" He drew in his legs to kneel over Merlin, and pulled back the shoulder of the hardened leather hauberk to inspect the wound. The blue cloth of Merlin's shirt was torn and bloody, the set of puncture marks on the leather tiny, no larger than a needle might make, sewing leather for a saddle. He found the bottom of Merlin's shirt, used his dagger to make a cut, then ripped off several inches of the blue material.

"Oi," Merlin protested, "did you have to do that?"

"If you're very fond of this shirt, you can mend it later," Arthur said, purposefully ignoring the rule of one living victor in the arena. He made another tear lengthwise, then folded the remainder into padding for a bandage. Lifting Merlin's hand to rest upon his own shoulder, he placed the bandage over the worst of the mace wound and wound the loose ends under the arm, tying it firmly in place. He noticed Merlin's wince and grunt, but pretended not to.

"Thank you," Merlin said, a little breathlessly.

Arthur checked to make sure they were still unnoticed by any other combatants. "There'll be bruising, too," he told the sorcerer. The mace was a heavy weapon. "But that'll help with the bleeding. First battle wound, huh?"

Merlin gave him a smile unusually brilliant, a special smile. Almost an intimate smile. "Not many battles take place in a farming village," he joked.

"Do you know what they're shouting right now?" Arthur jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the stands of spectators, guarded by bowmen placed every ten yards, to ensure their safety from the combatants. Any hint that flying magic or weapons might endanger the crowd, and the careless combatant would be shot down.

Merlin's eyes focused over his shoulder. "No, I don't," he confessed. "I haven't really been paying them any attention."

"Ever since that sorceress hit the sand," they both glanced over to the body, blood soaking the sand, "they've been screaming for me to kill you."

Merlin's eyes widened, and he looked back up at the stands as if he felt personally betrayed by those calling for his blood. "Are you going to?" he said, somewhat dazed.

Arthur cuffed the back of his head gently, just to get his attention, maybe knock some sense into him. "Just bandaged your wound, idiot," he reminded him. "It'd be a thankless way of repaying you for saving my life."

"Yes, I guess it would." A smaller, more secretive version of his wide smile.

"You know," Arthur continued conversationally, "there are a few encouraging you to kill me."

"What?" Merlin scowled at the stands for a brief instant as if trying to identify those few, before his expression changed, abruptly and completely, to one of _horror-fear-anger._

Arthur almost laughed , intending to reassure and calm the naïve young sorcerer, when Merlin spun around, rising to one knee as his arms spread to the sides, very much as though he meant to form a human shield.

Hoof-beats. Thundering down on them – there were no horses in the arena. Three thousand kinds of craziness, with sorcerers battling each other, but –

A statue galloped into view, beyond the sheltering edge of their chosen monument, twice the size of any horse Arthur had ever seen, with the head of a roaring lion, the horn of a unicorn, and a snake's head hissing and whipping back and forth on the end of its tail. Perched atop the stone back was a young sorceress with a blue turban and a smirk on her red lips.

She looked right at them and spoke. Arthur heard no words.

His body jerked backward as it had when Merlin's magic had yanked him away from the older sorceress' knife.

He felt himself falling, and the brightness of the sandy arena went dark.


	6. Cornelius' Curse

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 6: Cornelius' Curse**

Merlin sensed her coming – the one magic-user who really unnerved him, coming at twice-running speed, somehow. He turned from Arthur, spreading his arms to form with his body the shield against sorcery that otherwise Arthur did not possess.

Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously at him, her red lips quirked, and she spoke the death-charm so casually he almost didn't interpret her intention in time. He threw his magic around them, a stronger version of the shield-spell he'd used before, a desperate last effort.

Her curse had not been intended for him.

It was devious, and it almost worked. He could counter a death-charm aimed at his own life-force, but Nimueh had spoken to kill Arthur. The most he could do was deflect such a thing, hinder it, alter it.

The sorceress galloped away on her grotesque statue-steed, and Merlin let his arms drop heavily to his sides, his injured shoulder pulling painfully. He was almost afraid to look.

"Arthur?" he ventured. Hearing nothing, he turned.

The golden-haired warrior was crumpled on his side. But clearly still breathing – the red tunic that covered his chainmail armor rose and fell. Merlin jostled his shoulder. "Arthur!" he said more insistently. No response. He tried, "Now is not the time to sleep!"

What if he never woke?

A shivering sort of wave flowed over them from the direction of the middle of the arena. The sand danced and bounced around them as the ground shuddered. The stone of the monolithic statue next to them grated and groaned. Dust filtered finely down, into Merlin's eyes – he squinted up into the sun, almost directly overhead. Pebbles pattered down – the statue was _swaying_.

Merlin pulled Arthur's body into a sitting position, kneeling to grip him firmly under one arm, and maneuver his good shoulder as close to Arthur's center of gravity as he could guess. Then he strained to a standing position with double his weight, and staggered a dozen yards closer to the arena wall before collapsing, Arthur half on top of him.

The statue's arm snapped – if stone as thick as Merlin was tall could be said to _snap_ – and crashed down, rolling toward the center of the amphitheatre. He concentrated, holding out his hands as a guide for what he wanted his magic to do. The crowd behind him shrieked hoarse, excited.

The statue was coming down. He had no reason to attempt to balance it, hold it in place, but it would be an excellent barrier – refuge – shelter – if he could nudge it, place it – _oh_! it was _heavy_! and coming down _fast_!

The earth shrugged beneath his feet, as the statue landed, cracked, crumpled, chunks rolling, bouncing – he was knocked back across the slumbering Arthur, who grunted as Merlin rolled off him. Both young men were choked with dust and sand for a handful of moments, the air hazy when Merlin finally cleared his streaming eyes. He was probably lucky those archers hadn't shot him on suspicion, he supposed.

He could still sense the fighting, some of it, but it was more remote, isolated. The combatants, he guessed, were doing as he and Arthur had, retreating from the mob in the center of the arena. Seek cover, catch a few moments' rest, plot a strategy.

Merlin's strategy was simple. Survive in order to protect Arthur. He looked down at the warrior, whose eyes were open, though unfocused, and his body was still.

"Arthur, can you hear me?" he said. "Can you move?"

Again, no response. He turned to study the fallen giant, his good hand on his hip. There, just behind the knees, an enormous stone sword formed of milky white quartz, once unsheathed and held point-down at the statue's side, had cracked and slid backward. Shards were scattered around in a small semi-circle, ranging from fist-size to head-size. The diminished main piece formed a shallow cave-like shelter, where Arthur would be safe until he recovered. And Merlin could decide whether to hide there with him, or venture away to distract the attention of any combatants who came looking for them.

Wiping sweat from his face on the blue sleeve of his shirt, he hoisted Arthur up once again, half-dragging, half-supporting him to the sheltering stone sword behind the statue's knees. He watched warily for any sign that another contestant for the throne had discovered them, or approached from another direction, but reached his destination without incident.

"Merlin," Arthur grunted as he laid him down, but was unable to control his limbs, sagging limply to the sand.

"You're lucky, you know," Merlin panted. It wasn't easy to arrange someone else's body for comfort when they were largely unresponsive. "You get to rest here in the shade. I'll take first watch, shall I?"

Arthur attempted to speak, but Merlin slipped back out of the alcove, glancing swiftly right and left, then overhead. Prostrate, the statue was still half again as high as he was.

He moved toward the head of the giant, sparing a glance for the spectators. They were restless, conversing with each other rather than hollering or cheering, standing and craning their necks to peer around the far edges of the arena. It occurred to Merlin that the crowd could be useful, as a sort of shiny surface – not as good as a mirror, but still an indicator of other action out of his line of sight. He couldn't see what was going on over the statue, elsewhere in the arena – but they could.

He paused at the edge of the statue's tunic, a vertical wall two feet out from the legs, and glanced up into the faces. No one was paying him much attention, they were watching some dramatic scene unfold much further along, the distance rather lessening the impact of excitement.

Merlin glanced back – in the triangular corner made by the broken piece of stone sword, in the dark of the shade, Arthur wasn't even visible. He was safe – they were safe – for now.

The spectators released a collective gasp, and a female voice shouted, "Look over there!" Whether it was meant for his ears, or for her companion in the stands, he didn't know, but he risked a glance around the hem of the statue's tunic.

A warrior in battered armor limped toward him, shield missing from the arm clasped tightly to his side, sword dragging lifelessly by his feet. His wavy dark brown hair was matted with sweat and blood in the absence of a helm, his chin dragging low over his chest. Orange tunic.

"Lancelot!" Merlin gasped, leaving his sheltered corner to rush to his friend, quickly glancing around to make sure no other combatants had followed Lancelot. "You're hurt. How bad is it?"

"Bad enough." Lancelot's voice was calm, detached. "I won't survive it."

"Of course you will," Merlin said, ducking under Lancelot's arm and straightening to take some of the warrior's weight. "I'll help you. I'll heal you – I'm not very good at that sort of magic, but –"

"How strong of a sorcerer are you?" Lancelot asked curiously, as they shuffled forward.

"Oh, I don't know," Merlin said.

"You're not much to look at," Lancelot continued, as if evaluating Merlin for the first time, taking no trouble to be kind. "You look too young and weak to be taken seriously or given much respect."

Merlin snorted. "Don't try to talk, Lancelot, save your strength. Arthur is just up here, there's a bit of shade where you can rest while I try to–"

"Arthur?" Lancelot interrupted again. "Is he wounded then, too?"

"No, he's fine – or at least, he will be," Merlin said. They passed the tunic's edge and continued working their way toward the knees. Merlin risked a glance at the audience – no longer screaming for the combat, but watching them in a quieter fascination. No one was looking away to watch any other combatant approach – Merlin hoped that meant the three of them had this little corner of the arena to themselves. For a while.

"What happened to him?" Lancelot said.

"Hit by a curse," Merlin said, short of breath from the work of bringing the injured warrior to the makeshift cave.

"What sort of curse?"

Merlin grunted. _Talkative, all of a sudden_. "See for yourself," he panted, nodding to indicate Arthur's position.

Lancelot began to laugh, a chillingly insensitive laugh. "Perfect," he pronounced. They were twelve feet away and now could see Arthur clearly, reclining in the shade of the enormous broken sword, the lumps of quartz glittering on the sand around them. "A killing curse reflected, yes? Resulting in equal parts paralysis and slumber spell."

Merlin twisted his head to try to see Lancelot's face at such close range. He said, "How do you –" and stopped. Lancelot's eyes had changed. No longer warm brown irises with intelligent reactive pupil, his eyes were orbs of pure black.

This wasn't Lancelot.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur felt, at once, a great lassitude and a great apprehension. He saw the golden blur of the hot arena, knowing he was there to fight for his life, knowing that battle wasn't over. But he heard Merlin's voice, reassuring and humorous. He trusted that boy, sorcerer and fellow combatant though he was, and was confident he was in no danger.

There was the question, however, of Merlin's safety without Arthur able to watch his back.

Merlin' voice subsided beneath the murmur of the audience in the amphitheatre. At least Arthur was out of the heat and glare of the sun. He waited for the return of the oddly selfless sorcerer, practicing moving his fingers and toes.

It felt very much like his whole body had "fallen asleep," the blood flow constricted for a time, causing a numbness and inertness that was giving way gradually to an extreme clumsiness and an excruciatingly distracting pins-and-needles pricking all over him. Every involuntary twitch filled him with ridiculous but very real agony.

He heard voices, and managed to turn his head far enough to see Merlin approach, the orange tunic of his fellow warrior Lancelot draped across the farm-boy's shoulders. A stone's-toss away, Merlin dropped Lancelot's arm, springing away from him as Lancelot stood still.

"Who are you?" Merlin said, and Arthur was shocked and confused by the stern maturity in the boy's voice. "What happened to Lancelot?"

That didn't make sense. Arthur wondered if maybe somehow he'd hit his head, after that sorceress had spoken her spell.

Lancelot said, just as illogically, "The warrior managed to kill my body. So I thought it only fair to take his, damaged and failing though it may be. But _his_ –" he pointed with the forefinger of the hand still gripping the hilt of the sword at his side – "yes, I think his body would be perfect for my purposes." Arthur blinked. Lancelot was pointing at _him_.

Merlin tensed. "I won't let you hurt him," he warned.

Lancelot – or rather, whoever now resided _inside_ Lancelot - chuckled mirthlessly. "And you're going to stop me?"

Merlin didn't hesitate. "I'll stop you," he vowed.

The Lancelot-sorcerer reached a hand out as if in appeal. "This body is dying," he said. "That one can mean nothing to you. He does not deserve your loyalty – he knows nothing of magic. He will use you for his own ends, then discard you."

"That's not true," Arthur whispered, at the same time as Merlin said the words aloud, but he didn't think either of the men standing heard him. He struggled within his body, trying to gain more range of motion, more control, and it was a miserable failure.

"He will cast you aside without a moment's thought, when it comes down to the final contest," the Lancelot-thing said persuasively. It came to Arthur's mind that perhaps whatever sorcerer had appropriated Lancelot's body for his use did not want to force a confrontation with Merlin in the weak state of the warrior's wounded body. If Merlin could just keep him talking long enough, Arthur could perhaps get to his feet to fight. But then, maybe the other sorcerer was waiting until Arthur recovered from the effects of the spell to take him.

"That doesn't matter," Merlin said stubbornly, and Arthur stilled his attempts momentarily, unable to believe his ears.

Lancelot closed those inhumanly black eyes, took a deep breath, and Merlin stiffened in response, their bodies quivering, though Arthur saw no physical conflict. The Lancelot-sorcerer said softly, "You have such power – _you_! How can you stand to help him, promote him, further _his_ ambition?"

"That is the way it should be." Merlin's voice was just as quiet. Arthur realized he could hear no sound from the audience in the stands at all. "My power was not given to me that I should rule, but that I should serve."

That was an astounding concept, coming from a boy from a tiny farming village. It was a noble concept, and one that even the bravest of knights might hesitate to state so baldly. Arthur's heart constricted – the sorcerer wearing the body of the warrior had not so much as glanced at him for several minutes, but was now focused entirely on Merlin. He had continued a conversation which was clear from the first words he could not hope to sway in his favor. He had spoken almost hungrily of the boy's power – and he was looking for a body.

"Be careful, Merlin," Arthur panted, in the shade of the stone, but could not see that his words had been heard. He shifted, fighting to move arms and legs in spite of the painful tingling and lethargy binding him.

"You are so young," the Lancelot-sorcerer said, almost pleading with Merlin. "Look inside, you have yet to discover the full strength of your power. I can help you."

_Oh, no you won't_, Arthur thought. _Only one winner, remember?_ The Lancelot-sorcerer had spoken of Arthur betraying Merlin at the conclusion of the conflict – that thought must be first and foremost in his own mind. Or – was it possible for two sorcerers to inhabit the same body? It would be survival, of a kind… they would be stronger together, no doubt. Nigh invincible, maybe.

Merlin said nothing. Did he understand what he was being offered? Threatened with? The other sorcerer continued, encouraged, "The world will appreciate your greatness – join me, together we will rule the land, everyone will tremble at your voice, kneel at your feet –"

Merlin shuddered, and suddenly looked _taller_ to Arthur, who thought exultingly, _that's done it – you've lost him now_! The farm-boy said, "I don't want that."

"You would rather die putting another man on the throne?" the thing inside Lancelot managed to twist his features into an expression of incredulity.

Merlin raised his voice. "Better to serve a good man than rule with an evil one!" There was a whisper of sound, as though every person watching from the stands had drawn in a breath at once.

The face of their friend drew together into an evil scowl. "So be it – if you will not join me, I will _become_ you, and your power will be harnessed to my will!" Lancelot groaned, grimaced, gasped. He put out one hand toward Merlin, eyes once again a warm brown as he dropped to his knees. Merlin took one step toward him, and hesitated. Lancelot's body dropped to the sand, lifeless.

An eerie wisp of blue smoke trailed from the fallen warrior's mouth, and Arthur found he could sit up. The smoke lengthened, thickened, crossed the sand, whispering and curling around the ankle of Merlin's boot. The spectators began shouting in anger, in encouragement, whether in support of Merlin or to urge along his defeat, Arthur couldn't tell. He put his palms on the sandy floor of the arena, to push himself up by the strength of his will alone.

The blue smoke teased Merlin's clothing, climbing higher around his body. The voice that came from the young sorcerer's throat was desperate, deep and throaty and trembling with strain. Arthur could hear the words clearly, _Ic thin sawol her beluce_, though they made no sense to him at all. _Abide thaet ic the alyse_…

Merlin's muscles were tense, his head lifted as though he stood in deep and rising waters, trying to keep his face to the clean air. The blue smoke swirled, wrapped around him, entering mouth and ears and nostrils. Arthur made it to one knee, panting and gasping as though he could keep the evil stuff out of his friend's body by proxy.

Merlin choked, twitched, and fell to his knees. Arthur reached out toward him – Merlin fell forward, his outstretched hand falling on one of the broken pieces of the quartz sword. He convulsed, his body shaking, then opened his eyes to look at Arthur.

The deep-sea blue of the farm-boy's irises was completely obscured by an inky and malevolent black.

**A/N: Okay, a heartfelt apology to those who wanted Lancelot spared…There can be only one, remember? *devious grin***

**Also, dialogue taken from Season 2 ep.1 "Curse of Cornelius Sigan".**


	7. A Remedy to Cure All Ills

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 7: A Remedy To Cure All Ills**

_ The deep-sea blue of the farm-boy's irises was completely obscured by an inky and malevolent black. _

Arthur struggled to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword, a great sorrow oppressing him. Now he would have to kill Merlin, before the enemy sorcerer inhabiting his friend killed him. Merlin turned away, hands flat on the sandy floor to push himself to his feet, slowly as though unused to his body. He stood a moment, head lowered, exuding menace, stepped toward Arthur with a grim set to his jaw, his shoulders.

Merlin stopped at arms'-reach. Arthur's hand was still on his weapon, though he hadn't drawn it. Then Merlin raised his head, and met his eyes – pure blue. Arthur thought he'd never seen a color so beautiful. The young sorcerer grinned triumphantly, raising the piece of quartz sword still clutched in one hand – it glowed blue.

Arthur looked more closely. It seemed to him that the blue smoke swirled inside the stone. "You've trapped him?" Arthur asked incredulously, and the boy nodded without saying a word. Arthur took his hand from his sword-hilt to pass it over Merlin's good shoulder and clasp him in a quick but tight embrace.

"Well done!" he said, then cuffed the back of the boy's head to knock the look of surprise off his face, turning the gesture into a hold so he could rub the sand off the side of Merlin's face. "So is he in there?" Arthur said, releasing the boy to gesture at the glowing stone. "Can he get out?"

"Yes, and probably." Merlin looked exhausted, pale and shaky. He had, Arthur realized, fought against the other sorcerer very hard. Arthur shook his head. There was much more to this farm boy than met the eye. What had the other sorcerer said, _how can you stand to help him when you have such power – you are so young, you have yet to discover the full strength of your power_… Merlin had said so casually last night_, I won't be the heir_. He expected to die, yet fought so hard to live.

Arthur was glad of that. They made a good team. Already he'd have been dead if not for this boy, and the thought of seeing the lanky frame still and bloodied on the sand, blue eyes blank and dead, left him feeling sick and oddly lost. He hadn't intended to make friends in a kill-or-be-killed contest, it wasn't smart or practical. And yet, it had happened.

"Bury it," he suggested to Merlin, who nodded, and knelt somewhat unsteadily beside the statue, digging the sand out from under the enormous heavy stone with his hands.

Arthur went around to check Lancelot, felt in vain for a pulse at his neck. Nothing. Lancelot was gone. He contemplated the body of the man who might have been his next best friend, then carefully straightened his limbs, bending his arms to place hands on his chest, covering the bloody tear in the orange fabric and the mail armor beneath.

"We owed him, both of us," Arthur said out loud. "He was courageous, he was compassionate, he was noble."

"We will remember him," Merlin said. There was assurance and comfort in his voice, but Arthur knew it was a possibility that neither of them would last the day. They might not carry the memory of this young warrior very long.

"How are you holding up?" Arthur said, standing and checking for threats, left and right and over the top of the prostrate statue.

"I'm thirsty," Merlin said, from where he crouched with his back to the stone, the blue quartz now hidden. He smacked his lips in a way that Arthur would have chuckled at, had his own throat and mouth not been so dry. They'd fought and sweated in this deserty place for several hours now, and if they wanted to perform in peak condition, they needed water.

"Yeah, I could use a _drink_." Arthur accented the word heavily to make a joke, and was rewarded with one of those wide innocent grins.

"Arthur, I doubt they've included a tavern somewhere in the arena," the young sorcerer said. He hadn't moved to regain his feet, and Arthur could see his hands were trembling. He himself felt as stiff and sore as if he'd spent all day being thrown repeatedly from a fractious horse, then spent all night swimming in a vat of ale.

"Well, why not?" he said, to keep their spirits up with a little light-hearted banter. "Wouldn't that increase the entertainment value? A bunch of _drunken_ sorcerers and warriors all trying to kill each other." He reached his arm down in a clear invitation.

Merlin grasped Arthur's forearm as he pulled him to his feet. He snickered at the comedic initial image of Arthur's suggestion, then groaned at the realization what the reality of such a circumstance would probably be.

"There's at least two wells built into this arena," Arthur said, glancing around warily. "Let's just hope they haven't been hidden or –"

"Or tampered with," Merlin said.

Arthur drew his sword, kept it ready in his hand, and led the way toward the base of the statue at a partial crouch. "How many of us are left do you reckon?" Arthur said.

"Val's dead, and Tristan," Merlin said behind him. "Mary and – Lancelot. And I think the sorcerer in – in the blue quartz was Cornelius."

Arthur glanced back, catching Merlin's gaze as the sorcerer turned forward from keeping a watch behind them. "You remembered their names?" he said.

The farm boy shrugged uncomfortably.

_That really wasn't the best idea_, Arthur wanted to say. Remembering names and faces in such a situation. _Don't think about it_, he wanted to say. _Don't worry about it_. But it seemed to him Merlin was one to care, to remember, to _think_.

They continued on. "How could you tell?" Arthur said. "I mean about Cornelius?" The sorcerer wearing Lancelot looked like him, sounded like him. And no one could have recognized the blue smoke for the human person it had been.

"Cornelius and Edwin both spoke to me last night, offering to make – an alliance," Merlin said.

Arthur stopped at the edge of the monolith's vacant base, and peered around the edge. There was broken stone and statuary littered around the arena, but he saw no one moving. But no bodies, either. With five combatants dead for sure, and he and Merlin right here, there were five others somewhere in the arena. Like them, creeping, watching, waiting… plotting. Those two wells would be a drawing point. If someone else was there first, it would be an obvious place to ambush… which that person would also be stupid not to recognize.

"Why didn't you take either of them up on the offer?" Arthur asked, scrutinizing every piece of stone for any indication of someone lurking. "How far can you fire a spell?" he asked on the tail of his first question.

"Ah, as far as you can see – clearly," Merlin answered. "But the accuracy decreases as the distance increases."

Which could, Arthur thought, make long-distance magic less dangerous – or more.

Merlin added, "And I already told you, I'm not crown-prince material."

"I don't know about that," Arthur said. Nobility, loyalty, self-sacrifice, yes. The small-town naïveté would probably erode soon enough under the duties of the appointed office. "I think you'd make a good king."

He glanced back to see a comical open-mouth speechlessness on the young sorcerer's face, and gave him a lopsided smile. "One of the wells should be just the other side of that statue."

He pointed to the next fifty-foot high figure, a nearly-naked male with a sword held point-down in front of his stone loincloth, his head sporting a frog-wide mouth and a single huge eye under a carved feather headdress. One arm had been blasted away, and was lying in pieces behind him on the sand.

"I'm going first," Arthur continued. "You'll watch my back for hexes and spell, won't you?" Without giving Merlin a chance to answer, Arthur darted out into the open space, sprinting across the sand toward the cover of the next statue-base, shield ready in case another combatant stepped out to meet him.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Arthur!" Merlin hissed in fearful exasperation, but he didn't slow, and reached the statue without any ambush being sprung. Merlin continued scanning the arena for another moment, then caught Arthur's motion commanding him to join him. Merlin moved more slowly than the warrior had, ready to counter an attack rather than outrun it, but he reached Arthur's side without incident as well.

There was noise, then, an occasional crack! or hiss or grunt. A battle, and near the well, by the sound of it. "What's going on," he whispered to Arthur, who had the vantage point at the corner of the one-eyed statue's base.

"The sorceress in the yellow dress has cover behind the well," Arthur replied in a low voice over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the action Merlin couldn't see. "She's trading – curses, or something, with the scarred sorcerer."

Edwin, Merlin's memory reminded him, giving him the picture of the hunched, crippled man with horrific twisted burn-scars.

"The male sorcerer has a companion – a warrior, guarding his back with a crossbow." Arthur threw a grin over his shoulder. "Guess we're not the only two who paired up."

Which meant, Merlin supposed, that Edwin wasn't physically strong or agile, and that the other warrior probably didn't have magic. Kanen, then, since he'd seen Mordred fling a spear with magic. He wondered if that meant Kanen had won that duel.

"This is what we should do," Arthur continued. "Oh! – wait –" His body stiffened, and he carefully laid both sword and shield down on the sand, before standing and stepping out from cover.

"Arthur!" Merlin hissed. "What are you doing?"

Arthur gave him a backward glance. The sky-blue eyes flared red, briefly, and he moved away from Merlin.

_Ah, hell_. Sophia and the sidhe magic. Merlin scrambled out behind Arthur, freezing one, then another bolt midair before they could reach the golden-haired warrior. He launched himself, tackling his friend to the sand – _oh, no, you don't_, he thought grimly at the sorceress. _No one uses Arthur for a distraction_.

Sophia had noticed Arthur, but not Merlin – and as the two crashed to the arena floor, she swung her staff – white wood with a blue crystal entangled in delicate carving on the end – bringing it to bear on Merlin.

"Onbregdan!" Merlin shouted, and saw Sophia's sweet face twist in surprise as her staff sprang from her hand.*

With Arthur squirming to free himself from Merlin's weight, Merlin almost missed catching the staff he'd summoned, but as soon as the smooth wood met his fingertips, he shifted it around to face Edwin and Kanen, knowing Sophia was momentarily disarmed, and the other two would take immediate advantage of his own distraction.

The crossbow bolt aimed at Merlin struck the staff, piercing the carved cage of the blue crystal – and it burst in a scatter of light.

"No!" Sophia shrieked, just before her body mimicked the stone in her staff, and fiery scraps of her body, face, clothing and hair flew violently outward, fading quickly to an ash that dissipated on the breeze.

Merlin rolled off Arthur, scrambling to his knees, arms spread in readiness for whatever Edwin or Kanen might attack with, before rising to his feet. He kept the staff in hand, though it was useless now, and took three quick steps forward to put himself between Arthur and the other two, just visible behind a chunk of the one-eyed statue's blasted arm, as they tried to safely assess the changes to the situation.

Merlin risked a quick glance back at his friend, who crawled for cover behind the well. Arthur looked back at him, eyes a clear blue once again. He made a series of rapid hand gestures, and Merlin's initial exasperation at the warrior's expectation changed to a surprised harmony as he actually grasped Arthur's intention.

"Might I have a word?"

Merlin turned back at the sound of another's voice. "I'm listening," he said.

He watched Edwin move out from behind the rock, Kanen just behind him, cradling his crossbow. He wondered about their arrangement, whether they'd discussed the eventuality of facing each other, if they succeeded in overcoming their other opponents. It hadn't come up between him and Arthur.

"You came for water, didn't you?" Edwin asked, his manner urbane, his smile smooth and self-assured despite the scars that twisted his features. Merlin nodded warily. "By all means, come and welcome," Edwin said. "Our thank-you for your help with the sorceress. Take what you need, we will take what we need. Go in peace and good luck to you both."

Merlin didn't trust for a minute that the other sorcerer would let them refresh themselves and saunter away. "Why would you do that?" he said, glancing back to the well, where Arthur's last position would be hidden from their view. He wasn't there, and Merlin wasted neither time nor advantage looking for him, but turned his eyes back to the sorcerer opposing him.

"I believe it is time for magic to rule on the throne of Camelot," Edwin said.

Merlin noted that he did not specify _whose_ magic should rule. "What about the deal you've made with him?" Merlin said, to draw the warrior's attention. Kanen's short, wiry body exuded uncomfortable wariness, his middle-aged face dark with suspicion.

Edwin made a deprecating gesture, intended to both placate and denigrate his warrior ally. His face, turned toward Merlin, left no doubt as to his intentions. Kanen meant nothing to Edwin.

"We could allow the two warriors to face each other," Edwin proposed, flicking his fingers toward the well to indicate Arthur. He and Kanen approached slowly, leaving the cover of their chunk of statue. Probably so Kanen could take a closer shot, hoping Merlin wouldn't have enough time to stop the bolt.

"And you and I?" Merlin said.

"We must look after each other," Edwin said, cultured and persuasive. "Magic can be a force for good, to make this world a better one, and where better to accomplish that than from Camelot's throne? A gift like ours – like _yours_ – should be _nurtured_. You need someone to help you, to _encourage_ you. Imagine what we could achieve, if we shared our knowledge."

Merlin imagined the speech would be much more tempting had they both been standing innocuously in a shady lane somewhere, not fighting for their lives in a contest that would not admit of two survivors. Much more enticing were it not for Balinor, who had all his life nurtured Merlin's gift, helping and encouraging as much as he was able. What Merlin heard was_, Imagine what _I_ could achieve, if you gave your knowledge and power to _me_._

What was taking Arthur so long? Merlin could not keep up the peace-talks pretence much longer!

Over Edwin's right shoulder he saw movement. Edwin noticed the shift of his gaze and began to turn, as Arthur reached the top of the boulder closest to the arena wall. The golden-haired warrior let out a piercing whistle that had Kanen spinning also – crossbow cocked – aimed – what was Arthur _thinking_, to make himself such a high and obvious target? – fired –

Arthur dropped down to the sand, avoiding Kanen's crossbow bolt – and the three arrows shot by the nearest bowmen guarding the spectators, which feathered Kanen's chest as he staggered, wheeled, and fell.

Merlin took one step forward. Edwin absorbed the death of his own warrior-partner in a glance and turned back ready to fight Merlin. "Forbair ypile!" he screamed.**

A ring of fire sprang up around Merlin, the flames licking inward, roaring chest-high.

Merlin was unafraid – fire was his element, after all – he put his palms out calmly, forbidding the ravenous orange tongues from touching him. He could hold Edwin off indefinitely if need be, but he could not break the circle, could not walk through. Arthur would attack the sorcerer, and with their attention on the fire - one pushing, one resisting – it was a pretty even bet that Arthur's actions would upset this stalemate.

Arthur darted forward, pausing to retrieve a weapon from the sand – _oh, great_, Merlin thought, recognizing it for an ax, _another bloody heavy hacking weapon_! Edwin closed his fist, keeping the flames leaning inward toward Merlin so he could turn his attention over his shoulder to Arthur.

Arthur's eyes were on Merlin, not Edwin, as he tilted his body back into his cast of the weapon – _you tried this before_! Merlin thought, feeling the ache of the wound in his shoulder, _didn't you learn_ – oh. _Oh_.

Merlin readied himself, and Arthur hurled the weapon, haft over head, at Edwin. The scarred sorcerer, as Arthur and Merlin had both anticipated, dodged the weapon easily, and turned to watch it strike Merlin, directly behind him.

Merlin released his control of the fire for one instant, to _catch_ the ax just before his face, and jerked his whole body forward to propel the ax back the way it had come – which Edwin was not prepared for. The ax bit deeply into the other sorcerer's skull, cleaving his brain, dividing his face into one scarred half and one clean half, and he dropped to the sand with the force of the blow.

Just as Sophia's enchantment of Arthur had ended at her death, so the ring of flames around Merlin vanished at Edwin's.

The crowd was screaming. The entire half of the arena, it seemed, was on its feet, waving its arms wildly. Arthur ignored the noise to approach Merlin.

"What the hell was that?" Merlin said breathlessly, flapping his arms in a parody of Arthur's come-get-me beckon to Kanen. " 'Just shoot me for the idiot I am'?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Arthur said, grinning unapologetically. He retrieved his sword and shield from the base of the statue, and glanced around to see that there were no other combatants near. "I didn't think I could take a crossbowman without my sword, anyway, no matter how distracting you were being. Anyway, what about you?" He dropped his armor by the well, and sheathed his sword.

"Me?" Merlin said.

"Yeah." Arthur tapped his fingertips together, adopting a sinister tone that made Merlin grin. " 'Tell me more of your nefarious plan while I decide whether to ally my power with a manipulative sorcerer.' "

"I was being distracting, like you wanted," Merlin said, pretending to grumble. "If you'd waited any longer to pull that stunt, he'd have talked me to death."

"Talked _you_ to death – never!" Arthur declared. He slung one arm around Merlin's neck, causing him to drop the white-wood staff, and pulled him close to rub his knuckles on Merlin's skull.

"Hey, ow!" Merlin complained, but he was still grinning.

"How about that drink of water, then?" Arthur proposed.

***Spell from Season 1 ep.7 "The Gates of Avalon." **

****Spell and other dialogue taken from Season 1 ep.6 "A Remedy to Cure All Ills".**


	8. The Beginning of the End

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 8: The Beginning of the End**

"How about that drink of water, then?" Arthur proposed, moving to the well. He leaned his shield against the matched-and-mortared stone, the rampant dragon of Camelot facing inward, so he could snatch it up in a moment if need be. Merlin followed, perching on the stone lip of the well to lean forward and peer down into the depths.

"Three more down, huh?" Arthur said, and the farm-boy nodded, released the catch on the wheel. The rope spun out as the weight of the bucket drew it down to plunge into the water. "What happened to the sorceress? She looked at me, and her eyes were red, and the next thing I knew I was flat on the sand."

"She enchanted you," Merlin said, so matter-of-factly that a shiver went up Arthur's spine. "Brought you out to distract Edwin and Kanen." Arthur winced – _again with the _names_, Merlin!_ "I grabbed the staff away, and one of Kanen's arrows hit the crystal in the end of it." He pointed at the staff, the end empty and charred. "Her life force was tied to the crystal, so when it exploded…" He shrugged, and began to wind the wheel to pull the water bucket back up.

Arthur glanced around – only two others left, and there was no one to be seen, despite the commotion their battle undoubtedly caused. The spectators had calmed – some were watching them, some straining to see deeper into the arena, some just relaxing and chatting casually with neighbors. Arthur circled the well to help Merlin with the wheel. They were both tired, and sore, and Arthur knew Merlin's shoulder had to be causing him pain.

"How's the arm?" he said. Merlin just smiled. "You know, we're lucky magic-users are such a chatty lot." Merlin scoffed. "We warriors, we don't waste breath on words," Arthur said. "Out with the weapons, and have at it. And keep going until we're dead, or the victory is ours."

Again Merlin smiled that soft, secretive smile. "I guess, to a sorcerer," he said, "words can be weapons."

"And to you?" Arthur said. And knew immediately he should have bitten his tongue on a comment meant to be a joke.

Merlin stilled, his hand dropping from the wheel Arthur continued to turn. His face was away from Arthur, scanning the arena, the crowd. "Are you asking if you can trust me?" he said quietly. "I think, if you have to ask, then you already know the answer. And there is nothing I can say to persuade you."

Arthur felt like an ass. "I didn't mean –" he said.

"Never mind, Arthur," Merlin said, bending to catch the handle of the bucket as it rose to his grasp. "It doesn't really matter, does it, if you trust me?"

"It does matter," Arthur said roughly. Damn it, there were only two combatants left. It would break his heart, the more fool he, if Merlin turned on him. But maybe it would be better to be killed by a friend than to live knowing the friendship was a lie, the betrayal planned all along. He was still incredulous whenever he thought about Merlin's responses to the sorcerer inside Lancelot. "Merlin, I just – this contest – we probably _shouldn't_ trust each other. Shouldn't be friends."

Merlin tossed him a cheeky grin. "I'm glad for it," he said. "If I have one day left on earth, I'd want to spend it making a friend."

Arthur shook his head. "You know, that something about you I just can't put my finger on, what is it…"

"You said it already – I'm an idiot," Merlin joked. He balanced the water bucket on the edge of the well, then frowned at it.

Arthur snorted. Yes, probably that was true. No one else had come to this battle intending to make friends or protect other contestants. No one else would be humble enough to say, _you'd make a better monarch_ _than I_. Though if Arthur didn't make it, he'd want Merlin to win.

He removed his glove with his teeth, then dipped his cupped hand into the water in the bucket, raised it to his lips.

"Stop, it's poisoned!" Merlin exclaimed, knocking his hand away. "Don't drink it."

"What?" Arthur said. "How do you know?" Merlin gave him a reproachful look. "Yes, right. Well, what are we going to do?" Arthur said, mostly to himself. They both needed water. Neither of them was the sort of man to surrender, or admit defeat. They could sit and wait for the other two to seek them out here, resting in the shade to conserve energy. Or – "We'll have to go find the other well," he decided.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Merlin murmured, spreading his hand over the surface of the water but not touching it.

"Why not?" Arthur demanded.

"It's just a – funny feeling I have," the young sorcerer answered. "Let me try something first, and if it doesn't work, you can go to the other well."

Arthur blamed it on the heat. The glare, the unusual amount of physical exertion, the lack of invigorating water. He didn't catch the significance of Merlin's distinction _me_ and _you_. Before he could reach the sorcerer, Merlin had dipped his own hand into the water and drank several swallows.

"Merlin!" Arthur said, leaping to his friend's side and putting a hand on his shoulder as he swayed slightly – it would be just like the farm-boy to tumble right down the well.

"Oh, so that's what she did to it," Merlin murmured. He swallowed with difficulty, and gathered himself. He spoke a long phrase that Arthur didn't understand, in a compelling and almost musical tongue, and when he finished, his deep blue eyes glowed golden. Arthur had never seen someone do magic that close before – it was fascinating. "It should be fine for you now, sire," Merlin said.

The gleam of sorcery faded from his eyes, and Merlin's features constricted in discomfort. One hand rose to fumble at his neck, and he collapsed lifelessly in Arthur's arms.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, almost knocking over the bucket trying to keep Merlin from falling. He bent and lifted the boy over his shoulder, carrying him to the base of the one-eyed statue. It was past noon, the shadow cast by the enormous figure beginning to lengthen.

"Don't you dare," Arthur said. He tapped Merlin's face without any response. Remembering the comfort of Merlin's voice, he softened his tone. "Merlin, you need to fight. You need to live. Please don't give up now. Maybe you think this is your time, you never wanted to win, you never thought you would survive… but we've come too far, together. Please, just don't give up."

Merlin lay motionless, eyes closed, skin damp and pale, laboring for breath. Arthur thought of the water, and went to retrieve the bucket.

Suddenly, above the murmur of the crowd, he heard a child crying, sobbing. A small boy dressed in brown trousers and a white tunic ran out from behind one of the chunks of stone blasted from the one-eyed statue's arm. "Please, please, you have to help me!" he said.

"Where did you come from?" Arthur said, bewildered.

The child slowed a couple of feet away. "I fell into the arena. The wall is too high for me to reach my parents' hands."

"Are you hurt?" Arthur said, scanning the crowd for a worried mother or father. "The guards will help you –"

"They told me to find one of the fighters and ask for help," the boy said. "If you could lift me up, I could catch their hands."

What kind of parent would tell their child to find one of the fighters for help? He'd be an idiot to turn his back on the arena and encumber his hands and arms with a child – although, he thought ruefully, Merlin would do it.

"Is he dead?" the boy asked, pointing to Merlin's body in the shade of the statue's base. "Can I have a drink?"

"No, he's not dead," Arthur said shortly, and motioned for the boy to help himself to the bucket of water.

"Don't you think it would be best to kill him now?" the boy said innocently, pausing before the bucket. "Everybody says how you and that sorcerer fight like a team. But there's only one winner. What'll you do if it's the two of you at the end?"

"There's two other combatants left," Arthur said obstinately. He hated that this child could so easily voice what had been bothering him, too.

The boy bobbed his head agreeably, dabbling his fingers in the water. "Sure, and a tame sorcerer could be useful. If he doesn't turn on you first."

"Not Merlin," he said with conviction. The sorcerer Cornelius had said, You would die putting another man on the throne? If it came to the two of them, sure as the sky was blue Merlin wouldn't kill him to take the throne for himself. They were a good team, but Arthur suspected, if Merlin had any ambition for himself, he wouldn't _need_ Arthur to win.

"If you're planning on turning on him, then," the boy continued, "don't you think now would be best? Now, while he's weak and unconscious?" It was an un-childlike sentiment, and Arthur stared as the boy scooped up water to slurp.

The boy glanced at him, and Arthur gave him a disgusted glare. The boy spread his hands as if to excuse himself for repeating what everyone was saying. "If you like him as your friend, it would be kindest, too, do it while he's asleep. He'd probably rather it be quick while he's already unconscious, don't you think? At the hand of someone who cares something for him?"

Arthur's heart twisted. Unless Merlin somehow won – which would mean he'd failed in his absurd self-appointed task of keeping Arthur alive – he would die. And soon, most likely, with only four left out of twelve. Would he rather die quickly, with Arthur at his side, then with violence and blood?

He shook his head. Just a moment ago he'd been begging the young sorcerer not to give up, not to leave him. Was that selfishness speaking? Wasn't it sensible, wasn't it practical, to follow this child's advice? Merlin had said, and showed, that he was willing to die for Arthur.

No. What sort of prince – or king, even – would he be, to reward such loyalty with what amounted to backstabbing? Such an action would prove that he wasn't worthy of Merlin's loyalty. That choice was not his. Even if Merlin placed his life in Arthur's hands, he would not take it.

"Let's get you back to your parents," Arthur said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's magic hummed, cleansing him from the poison of the well, the curse the sorceress had tainted the water with as she worked her dark magic. It was really too bad that he couldn't have identified the curse, and thus the counter-curse necessary to purify the water, without this dreariness.

He was aware that his body was breathing, dragging in one breath after another. Why was that? Why should it matter? Oh, yes, Arthur. He wasn't the heir yet. How many more combatants? Names tumbled through Merlin's thoughts, and he found he couldn't separate one from another, or calculate the living from the dead, either.

He could hear Arthur's voice. It was comforting. Rising and falling, as though Arthur was in calm conversation with someone. There was something wrong with that, Merlin felt. Weren't they fighting for their lives in the arena? He squinted his eyes open, at the brightness of the afternoon, the color and flash of the spectator stands, the cool blank of the stone he was beside, and under.

Who would Arthur be stopping to have a conversation with? Merlin turned his head, the sand of the floor beneath him grinding into his hair. There was Arthur, near the well, his chainmail glinting in the sun, the red tunic grubby from the fighting. Near him, helping himself to the water that Merlin had cleansed, was a young boy.

A boy? A child, in the arena? Speaking to Arthur so casually? Merlin found his eyes had trouble focusing on the boy's face. His child's body wavered slightly, as though heat rose from the sand to distort the image. But the effect did not encompass Arthur.

"Arthur," he tried to say, but only a croak came out. He tried to move, but the poison had stiffened his limbs.

Arthur moved away from the well, heading for the arena wall – turning his back to the child. Merlin watched in horror as the boy crept along behind Arthur. Metal glinted in the small childish hand. There was nowhere to conceal a warrior's sword on the small form, but a long-bladed dagger would do the job.

Merlin opened his mouth to cry a warning, but only a hoarse rattle came from his throat. No. This wouldn't happen. He wouldn't allow it. He gathered his magic, his resolve – both of which were formidable – and threw the thought-spell across the distance with all the speed and accuracy and potency he could manage, _Hierste thaet cicen sona!* _

Immediately afterward, he screamed with all his being, _Arthur! Turn and fight_!

The boy's glamour dissipated, revealing the youngest warrior, Mordred. Arthur glanced back just as Mordred thrust the dagger forward, and Arthur's body jerked in response.

Merlin watched in shock – _no No No NO!_ – Arthur drew his sword, and the movement seemed clumsy and slow. But it was sufficient. Mordred's attention was still on his own weapon, the success of his own blow, and not on defending himself. Merlin saw with a dark satisfaction inches of Arthur's blade emerge beyond the younger warrior's back, between his shoulder blades. The two stood face to face for some moments, before Mordred's knees buckled, and he tipped sideways to rest lifeless on the sand.

Merlin heard himself sob. Arthur's left arm was clutched to his side in just the way that Lancelot's had been. He pulled his sword free from his enemy's body, and came slowly back toward Merlin, as if in a dream. Or in shock. He stopped once, then turned to the side to lift the bucket of water by its handle, carried it in the same hand as his sword.

Once in the shadow of the statue, Arthur dropped to his knees. Merlin coughed and turned his face to spit out foam from his lungs, expelling the last of the curse.

"Damn kid broke a rib, I think," Arthur said. Releasing the bucket and his weapon, he inspected his side – the slit in the red tunic, but the pattern of the chainmail beneath was unbroken. "That _hurts_."

Merlin started to laugh from sheer relief, and coughed until it hurt, spitting more bloody foam to the sand.

"You're still alive, then?" Arthur added. He raised Merlin's head and brought a palmful of water to his mouth, then again.

Merlin had never felt anything so wonderful as that cool, pure liquid sliding down his tight dusty throat. "Yeah, just about," he said. "Thank you."

"You, too," Arthur said, giving him a strange half-smile. "That was you, wasn't it? He had me fooled – I turned my back to him. But you did something – you must've – to make him show himself. Didn't you?"

"It's not a hard spell," Merlin said. He leaned his head forward, and Arthur understood he wanted to sit up, helping him accomplish his goal in spite of weak muscles. "Just a question of making him lose his concentration, really."

"So," Arthur said, as they both helped themselves to the water. "One left to go."

"Yes," Merlin said, shivering. They should wait, he thought, regain as much strength as possible. He had a feeling that facing Nimueh was going to be an experience he would never forget.

***Spell taken from Season 2 ep.5 "Beauty and the Beast" pt.1 – the Spell of Revelation, to make something (or someone) reveal their true nature. **

**Other dialogue taken from Season 1 ep.4 "The Poisoned Chalice."**


	9. The Mark of Nimueh

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 9: The Mark of Nimueh**

"We can't stay here," Arthur said. They sat side by side, backs to the one-eyed statue's base, legs outstretched in the shadow that lengthened imperceptibly, the half-empty bucket between them.

"Why not?" Merlin said, his voice without energy. "I find I lack any inclination even to get up."

"Well, not everyone can be as lazy as you," Arthur teased, elbowing the young sorcerer in the ribs. He'd watched Merlin's recovery closely, and was now comfortable in the assurance that there was no lasting damage done.

"Lazy, that's nice," Merlin scoffed. "If the poison had killed me, would you have called me a hero?"

"Of course," Arthur said. In his opinion, Merlin had been a hero all day, since – well, probably since he'd volunteered to leave his village.

"But since I'm alive, I'm lazy?"

"As a cat in the sun," Arthur said.

Merlin groaned. "You have no idea how tempting that sounds right now."

"You could turn yourself into a cat?" Arthur said surprised. He watched as the spectators grew more restless, many to the point of getting up and moving up and down the rows to stretch their muscles. _It's funny_, he thought, _at this point in the afternoon we only want to sit still – and that's the one thing they're tired of doing_. He swiveled his head to check their periphery for the last sorceress once again.

"Probably." Merlin's eyes were closed, his skin so pale it was almost translucent. "I don't know a spell for it, though."

"It's not much of a strategy, anyway," Arthur said. "I think, Merlin, we probably need to be up and moving, when you feel strong enough. I doubt they let us sit here much longer – we're not entertaining anyone, and we're not getting any closer to finishing the contest."

"You don't think she'd eventually come after us?" Merlin murmured. "We seem to have managed to attract just about everyone else."

"We have, haven't we?" Arthur realized. "Are you the draw for trouble?"

"Why does it have to be me?" Merlin complained. "I think it's you."

"Out of twelve combatants in the arena, and nine dead," Arthur said, "we're responsible for eight of those. That's terrible luck, Merlin, and you know it."

Merlin was silent for a moment. "There's something wrong with us," he said, trying to make a joke, but his voice was husky and his tone was off. "It was worth it, though – swear to me it was worth it?"

"We're not done yet," Arthur reminded him. "But for the record, Merlin, you're one of the bravest men I've ever met, and a noble warrior. You fought in defense of your life and mine, and you've nothing to be sorry for or ashamed about, you hear me?"

"Yeah," Merlin said, and cleared his throat. "Yeah."

A loud authoritative voice hailed them from the stands. The knight who'd signed their names to the list of combatants – only _yesterday_! – waved for their attention. "Three combatants remain," he called, holding up gloved fingers to make sure they understood. "The king has decreed that all fighters make their way to the center of the arena to force the conclusion."

"Or else what?" Arthur muttered rebelliously.

"Thank you, Sir Leon," Merlin called back, moving to climb to his feet.

Arthur stood first, and assisted the younger man in regaining his balance, retrieving the charred white-wood staff for Merlin to lean on. "What is it with you and names, Merlin?" he said. "You know everybody in Camelot?"

Merlin gave him a wide brilliant smile. "No, just the important ones," he said, beginning to shuffle toward the center of the arena.

"Hey, take it easy," Arthur said. "Wait a minute. How are you doing really? Are you ready for this?"

Merlin shrugged. "Just feel a little weak and shaky," he said. "I'm all right."

Arthur stepped into the lead, proceeding cautiously in case the last sorceress waited to ambush them. "What do you think?" he said. "Shall we split up, take her from both sides? You hold her attention, I'll come up from behind?"

"I think she has something else in mind." Arthur paused to look back at his friend. "The poisoned water in the well – it's a result of sorcery. I think she's made an afanc."

"An – afanc?" Arthur said. "I've never heard of an afanc."

"It's a beast conjured by powerful magic, dark magic," Merlin said. "It's made of earth and water, two of the four base elements."

Arthur gripped the hilt of his sword at his side. "How many of these creatures can we expect?" he said.

"I hope only one," Merlin answered. "It's a spell that uses the caster's blood, so she weakens herself in making more, not to mention that after the first, the water source is polluted. A second or third creature would be much weaker itself, and might not be worth wasting blood and strength to make. What?"

Arthur had stopped to stare at the farm boy, leaning on the charred white staff like an old man. "Had much experience with them, have you?"

Merlin gave him that wide beautiful smile. "No, sorry – it's book theory."

"So she wants me to fight this creature while the two of you have your sorcerer's battle?" Arthur said. "How can she know we're still working as a team? How can she know there's only three of us left?"

Merlin grimaced, and motioned for Arthur to continue on, making their way toward the center of the arena, stone by stone, statue to statue, ready for the sorceress' ambush. "She used the other well to cast the spell and form the afanc," he said. "She's probably scryed us all in the water, she's had the time and opportunity."

"She can see us right now?" Arthur said, halting behind a twice-life-size statue of a seated griffon.

"Not if she's been told to go to the center of the arena also," Merlin said. "Why lug a bucket of water around with you when you know where your enemies have to go, and soon?"

They edged to the corner of the statue, and Arthur leaned around it. "There's the center," he said. "I don't see her, yet." He eased his sword from its sheath at his side. "Right, then, anything special I need to know about this afanc?"

"The other two elements will destroy it," Merlin said. "You want fire, wind and fire."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Where am I about to get fire?" he hissed, spreading his arms to remind the boy where they were.

Merlin considered, then handed the wooden staff to him. "I'll light it for you," he said simply.

"And the sword is useless?" Arthur considered again, how lucky he was to have Merlin fighting for him – never in a million years would he have been able to hold out against the sorcery performed against him in this arena.

"It could keep the afanc from getting close enough to injure you," Merlin suggested.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Are you ready?" he said. Merlin chuckled, and it had a desperate sound to it, to Arthur's ears. He looked again at his friend. Merlin, it seemed, could be nervous as a girl, given too much time to contemplate impending danger, but had proven remarkably level-headed once battle had been joined.

"You'll do fine," Arthur said, gripping Merlin's good arm. "I believe in you."

Merlin met his eyes, and calmed. "_I_ believe in _you_," he said.

"Let's go meet our destiny, then," Arthur said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wished he still had the staff, something to grip in his hands. He felt decidedly vulnerable, following Arthur empty-handed as the golden-haired warrior crept forward, sword and staff at the ready.

Arthur began to circle to the right, but Merlin continued straight on, maneuvering toward the center of a ring of broken stone – he recognized the pieces of the lion-headed, snake-tailed equine creature Nimueh had been riding. She wasn't visible yet.

A growling noise rumbled behind them, and he resisted the urge to turn as Arthur spun about – the creature was Arthur's job, the sorceress Merlin's. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed talon-fingered claws, ropy sand-colored arms, and a wide mouth with rows of jagged teeth. It swiped at Arthur, who leaned back to avoid the claws, spinning to bring his sword to bear – and it was gone by the time he completed the turn.

"Where is it?" Merlin said.

"It's – quick!" Arthur gasped. "I think it went – down in the sand!"

Behind Arthur, the sand bubbled like the water of a trickling brook, as if something large swam below the arena floor, from Arthur's feet and away, the same growling sound ominous in the silence. No one was cheering. The air was completely still – Merlin tested it, recognized the sorceress' hold. _Wind and fire_, he'd told Arthur. But she was holding the wind.

"There," Merlin said, pointing, while trying to look all around for Nimueh.

Arthur turned again, as the sand erupted to the creature's bellowing and slashing – Arthur slashed it hard with the sword. It was as if he'd aimed a blow at swamp water or a sand dune – the blade passed right through, barely leaving a mark, and the two sides met and re-formed easily. Arthur cursed again as the creature sank below the sand, which rippled away toward the nearest statue, clearly trying to lure the warrior from the sorcerer's side.

"You have to go after it," Merlin said.

"I don't want us to be too far apart," Arthur growled back.

"I don't think she's coming out while you're here," Merlin said. His heart was pounding, trying to watch all sides at once.

Arthur began to pace forward, keeping off the sand which had shifted at the creature's passing. Overhead, dark clouds began to gather, forming and floating from all corners of the sky, drawn to the center over the arena like murky water going down a drainage hole. Arthur reached the edge of the statue's head-height base, gave Merlin a backward glance, then rounded the statue.

"Hello, Merlin." Suddenly, she was there, casually stroking the stone lion's head. Her blue turban was gone, her hair dark and long and curly, with beads threaded into it to separate the locks. "Do you know who I am?"

"Nimueh," he said, his throat dry.

"Have you considered my offer?" she said coyly, leaning against the stone in clear invitation, tossing her hair back. "I can feel your power, you know. Can you feel mine?"

He could, he realized, it was like a revolting pull somewhere in his middle. He glanced to the side as Arthur came into view again, creeping warily, searching for the hidden afanc, and the pull he felt from her disappeared.

"He's nothing compared to us, you know," she said. "Come, now, we are too valuable to each other to be enemies."

"Cornelius and Edwin said the same thing," he said. "They are dead now."

Her red lips smiled provocatively. "I can offer something they could not," she said. "You and I, we can both walk from this arena. As king and queen, we could share the throne."

Two heirs. He wondered if it would be allowed. Perhaps if they were bound in marriage before walking off the sand. He shuddered. His instinct to live was stronger than he had thought, but the idea of being bound to this woman for the rest of their lives was not preferable to death.

"No, I will share nothing with you," he said. "I will make Arthur king, and you will never see that day." He struck, quickly, razoring her hold on the air, and a wind began to whip round the arena. The sand just behind Arthur billowed, and he spun. The creature, looking like a grotesque parody of a man on crouched legs and knuckles, crept out from behind the statue.

Nimueh's smile faltered, just a little. She tipped her head up to the sky, where the dark clouds roiled and twisted. She spoke her spell quietly, calmly, "_Tidrenas_." Rain began to fall, a mist, a drizzle, a downpour.

Merlin heard the growl as a faint thunder; he could see the monster drooling from where he was. Arthur retreated, slashing again and again as the rain poured down, strengthening the creature and drenching everything else.

In front of him, the sorceress rubbed her palm against the air in a small sensual circle. "Your childish tricks are useless against me, Merlin," she told him, in the voice of one lover scolding another fondly. "_Forbearne_." He dove to the sand and the fireball exploded against a chunk of stone behind him, casting rocky splinters everywhere as her power bored a hole straight through the statue. "You should join me," she said, balancing a second fireball despite the downpour, as he scrambled up to face her.

"You think I would join forces with such a selfish and cruel magic?" he said. Behind her, Arthur retreated from the snarling afanc, his sword useless, the staff still in his hand. _I'll light it for you_. He spoke, pushing his hand toward Nimueh – "_Astrice_!" She dodged as a bolt of golden light from his palm shot across the arena – missing her, it caught at the top of the staff in Arthur's hand.

Wind gusted as the afanc struck, shrieking, and the fire he'd conjured blew in a great aerial inferno, engulfing the monster.  
"_Akwele_!" Nimueh cried, and the fireball exploded on his chest, over his heart. He had the sense of being airborne for an instant before slamming back down to the sand so hard he couldn't breathe. He smelled the leather of his protecting vest smoking, heard Arthur shout his name, heard the sorceress' voice even closer.

"Pity," Nimueh said. "Together we could have ruled the world. So be it." She spoke again, and this time he heard the words of the death-chant. Merlin opened his eyes – she was not looking at him. _Arthur_. He turned his head, and saw the golden warrior fall.

Merlin's magic was powerful, as they all had said. But it was a talent raw, untrained. Instinctive. His magic reached out, and the world froze around them. He gazed up into the sky, into the storm, and beckoned, coaxing the wild energy down – and the bolt crashed into the arena.

"You should not have killed my friend," Merlin said, and the sorceress exploded in a flash of blue screaming light.

**A/N: Dialogue and spells taken from Season 1 ep.3 "The Mark of Nimueh" and ep.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur".**

**And before you complain about a cliffie, stop and think about both Hunger Games and these episodes!... although, I don't write slash…**


	10. The Moment of Truth

**A/N: So this is the end of part 1. I'm going to finish my other fic 'Emrys Strain' before continuing on part 2 of KG, but it will be under this story heading, not a separate one. Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing, hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

**Also, I've posted a poll on my profile where you can vote for the setting of KG part 2… thanks in advance!**

**Part I: A Game for an Heir**

**Chapter 10: The Moment of Truth**

Arthur picked himself up from the wet sand of the arena floor. His body felt too heavy, from exhaustion, from drenched clothing and armor, from the memory of the sorceress' fireball catching Merlin full in the chest and sending him flying.

Just before Arthur had _tripped_, damn it. Now who was the clumsy one?

There seemed to be an odd disconnect in his memory, then, as if he'd blacked out for a moment and the world had continued without him. His eyes were dazzled from a bolt of lightning he didn't recall seeing. He couldn't locate the sorceress visually, and hoped that meant she was dead. He could hear a dull roar above the clattering of fat raindrops on the stone and sand of the arena.

He stumbled slowly over to Merlin's crumpled body. A blackened circle the size of Arthur's hand with fingers outstretched marred the leather of the boy's hauberk, and his blue eyes gazed up at the clouds without movement.

Arthur dropped to his knees beside his friend. He touched Merlin's chest, fearing what he might find beneath the thin protection of the hardened leather. But he couldn't detect a single hole or tear where the armor had failed. There was only the grimy smear of black on Arthur's hand, and Merlin's chest – which heaved suddenly at the sorcerer's indrawn breath.

The blue eyes blinked in the rain that fell on his face, then focused on Arthur, who laughed in incredulous joy.

"Arthur?" Merlin croaked, as Arthur jammed his sword into the sand, and helped his friend to sit up.

"I can't believe it either," Arthur said. "You did it? She's gone?"

"I thought she'd killed you," Merlin said. "She cursed you and you fell and I – I tried to stop it happening –"

"I tripped," Arthur confessed. "Maybe you did stop it or maybe the curse missed me – what happened to her?"

"Lightning," Merlin said.

Arthur blinked at him through the rain. "You called lightning out of her own storm?" Merlin nodded, and Arthur laughed again. "Then you should have no problem stopping this blasted rain, should you?"

Merlin straightened, and they both looked around. The spectators' seats rising around the amphitheatre were dry – rain only fell within the circle of the arena. The young sorcerer spoke a few words, and his eyes gleamed golden beneath the shaggy black hair plastered wetly to his forehead.

The pattering slowly perceptibly, faded to a drizzle, then a mist. Then the clouds relented and began to break, allowing shafts of late afternoon sunlight to pierce to the ground. Arthur stood and lifted Merlin to his feet, also. He breathed, realizing for the first time since the horn had sounded, that it was a _free_ breath. No one in the arena was after his life. He pulled the sword from the sand but let it hang loosely at his side.

He gave a short chuckle of disbelief. "We did it," he said. "We made it. It's over." He looked around, at the people still watching expectantly, and frowned.

"But, Arthur," Merlin said. "It's not over."

"What do you mean?" Arthur turned back to him.

Merlin was pale, but composed. Water from his hair trickled down his face. "Have you forgotten?" he said. "Only one victor – one heir." He twisted sideways, began fumbling awkwardly with the lacing of his charred leather armor, one-handed, and Arthur guessed that the shoulder bandaged with a torn piece of the sorcerer's own shirt was probably too stiff by now to allow for much movement. Arthur reached to help him, but the laces gave, finally, and Merlin ducked out of the hauberk, letting it drop to the sand. "Arthur, you're a great warrior. And one day, you'll be a great king."

"What are you saying?" Arthur said.

The young sorcerer did the most extraordinary thing. He put his right foot forward and dropped to a kneeling position in front of Arthur. Raising his voice, he spoke clearly, his voice carrying in the hush of the arena.

"I, Merlin of Ealdor, do hereby vow my loyalty to Arthur of Camelot as my liege and sovereign. I solemnly swear to serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man, to the last drop of blood in my veins, the last breath of life in my lungs, the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always."

He raised his face and Arthur was stunned to see two tears making their way through the rain-smeared battle-grime on the farm-boy's face. "Promise me one thing," Merlin said. "Promise you'll go to my mother and father yourself, promise to tell them kindly, and – look after them?"

"Merlin, that's three things, not one," Arthur said, teasingly protesting.

"Well, while I'm asking, I might as well ask a fourth," Merlin said, giving him an impudent grin that quickly faded. "Arthur – please make it quick."

"You can't mean that you think I'm going to kill you," Arthur said, wondering briefly if he hadn't hit his head when he'd fallen, or if maybe the sorceress had cast a spell on him after all.

"Don't worry about me," Merlin said. "One day I will see you again."

"Why don't I ask you a favor," Arthur said, starting to lose his temper in the midst of an awful apprehension. "Why don't you get up off your knees and quit being an idiot."

"Please – no, I'm serious," Merlin said. "How can I –" He made an impatient movement with his shoulders, bowing his head again.

Then he reached forward to curl the fingers of his right hand around the back of Arthur's knee.

Arthur almost lost his balance in shock. The gesture was an ancient one. _I am your slave_, it said. _My life is yours to take_, it proclaimed before every citizen of Camelot present. Anyone who hadn't heard the words of Merlin's spontaneous oath of fealty could be in no doubt now why the black-haired boy was on his knee to Arthur.

But there was something else, something that Arthur suspected a farm-boy would not know. That particular grip was peculiar to warriors on a field of battle, a last act of surrender in the face of impending death. _My life is yours_, it said – _to take _or to spare._ Mercy_, it said, in the midst of chaos and violence and bloodshed. _Have mercy – spare me._

Arthur allowed his knee to bend, allowed Merlin to draw it forward, bow his head to touch his forehead to Arthur's kneecap.

Arthur reached down and placed his hand on Merlin's mop of black hair. "I, Arthur of Camelot," he said, and had to clear his throat so that as many people as possible would hear him. "Accept the oath of Merlin of Ealdor fully, freely, and with honor. As his liege, I take responsibility for his actions, his safety, and his wellbeing. Now and forever."

Merlin tipped his face back, his eyes wide and dark with surprise. He let his hand drop, and Arthur found his legs were shaky. He lifted the sorcerer – _his first subject_ - by the shoulders.

"Now you are mine," Arthur told him fiercely, gripping him by the back of the neck. "And no one can take you away from me."

"I think he might want to," Merlin stammered, and Arthur turned to see King Uther Pendragon approaching across the sand, resplendent with golden crown and billowing red cape, expression thunderous. Behind him came an elderly man in a blue robe.

"What the hell is going on here?" Uther demanded, as Arthur and Merlin both bowed to him. "Both of you knew and agreed to the rules of this game. One winner, one heir."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Merlin said, gesturing to Arthur. "Arthur is your heir. He is the victor of the games."

"For him to be the winner, you must be dead," Uther declared bluntly, drawing his sword. Merlin made no protest, but bowed his head.

"No, you can't!" Arthur protested. "Sire, he saved my life – he made my victory possible. I can't watch him die!"

Uther turned on him with steely gray eyes and no hint of compassion. "Then don't look," he said. "If you become king, he will not be the last to die for you." He drew back his arm, raising the sword.

"No!" Arthur said again, thrusting Merlin aside, behind him, ignoring Merlin's hiss of protest. "You will have to kill me first!"

"Sire, if I may," the old man interjected with forceful respect and decorum. "The boy has already sworn to Arthur as his subject in front of nearly the entire kingdom. I don't believe he poses a threat to the line of succession passed to Arthur as the victor."

"But he is a sorcerer, Gaius," Uther said, not lowering the sword. "And when have you known a sorcerer to lack ambition? It is a trick."

Gaius silenced the two young men's arguments with a single raised eyebrow. "After this display, Highness, there is no way the boy could rise above Arthur," he said. "As a matter of fact," he gestured to call Uther's attention to the mood of the crowd, "I believe you may find yourself with an uprising on your hands if you do not grant the boy's life to your new heir."

Arthur risked taking his eyes from the king's blade to glance up into the stands. Thousands of hands were extended, thousands of thumbs silently pointing upward in the universal signal of _Live_.

Beside him, he heard Merlin's breath catch in his throat in a disbelieving sob.

"A prince should have the heart of the people," Gaius continued softly, as the king contemplated his audience. "A prince should also know when to pass judgment, and when to extend mercy. This young man will make you a good heir, Uther. I'm afraid your only other choice is to kill them both, and it would be – an extremely unpopular choice."

Uther reluctantly lowered his weapon, then sheathed it – and the crowd went wild. Calling, crying, hugging each other, throwing hats and scarves into the air.

Under cover of the noise, the king stepped close, his eyes and face like granite. "You have opposed me successfully this once," he said to Arthur. "Do not make it a habit."

"Sire," Arthur bowed his head to show his intended submission. He had survived – had won! – and Merlin was allowed to live. At the moment, he had absolutely no wish to cross his monarch.

Uther glanced over Merlin with an expression of sneering distaste, then turned away. "As you have spoken to vouch for him, Gaius, let him live in service to you and Arthur, both." He strode away, back across the sands toward the great entrance where the iron portcullis had been raised.

"I am Gaius, the court physician," the old man said. "Arthur, and Merlin, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, perhaps you'd like to follow me to my chambers, where I can assess and treat your injuries?"

Merlin chose that moment to lose consciousness, and would have tumbled to the sand had Arthur not caught him.

"My lord, allow me," said a red-caped guard hurrying up behind Gaius. Arthur recognized the knight with wavy red-gold hair who had supervised the combatants. Sir Leon, Merlin had called him. Leon bent and lifted the sorcerer over his shoulder.

"Thank you, my friend," Arthur said. "Thank you, Gaius, it is very kind of you to offer."

"Well, as of now you are our prince," the old man responded. "Do not take it amiss if I hope I do not see you in my professional capacity too often."

Arthur laughed wearily. "I hope not," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke in an unfamiliar but cozy room. He was warm, he was comfortable, and he was dry. Turning his head to the high window, he noted it was already late into evening by the dark look of the sky beyond. The pungent odor of herbs that the wound on his shoulder had been bound with was strong. He found that sitting straight up was nearly impossible, the injured muscles protesting, but he rolled to the side and managed to struggle upright. He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for his head to clear, and realized he could hear voices from beyond the room's door.

Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the door, the boards of which had begun to warp away from each other despite the iron bindings. He put his eye to the largest of the cracks, and saw Gaius, the elderly court physician, in his blue robe, seated at the table, working with mortar and pestle. The old man spoke, addressing someone beyond Merlin's line of vision. He shifted to the side, and there was Arthur in profile, clean and dry as Merlin was, out of his armor, dressed in simple trousers and a white cotton shirt. His arms were crossed and he leaned against a side table as he chatted with Gaius.

Merlin took a deep breath and let it out, happier than he'd been in a long time, since before he'd left his home in Ealdor. No, that wasn't quite right. He hadn't left his home.

He had found it.

…..*….. …..*….. EPILOGUE …..*….. …..*…..

For the victory banquet, Arthur had been dressed in the finest of clothing, the red of Camelot, chainmail and his own red cape. Merlin had been given a new blue shirt and a red sleeveless tunic to wear over it, bearing the rampant dragon of Camelot embroidered in gold, and falling mid-thigh. His right arm rested in a sling – not absolutely necessary, as Gaius had pointed out, but a good precaution in the press of the crowd to be expected at the celebration.

Arthur, of course, was the center of attention, as it should be. Merlin kept his back to the wall, aware that he was something of an oddity, trying to remain inconspicuous, not wishing to attract the king's ire along with any attention from the guests.

Gaius had checked on him twice, telling him, "If you feel light-headed or dizzy, do sit down before you fall. The magic you have done today would exhaust even the most experienced of sorcerers, and the last thing we want you to do is interrupt Uther's speech." Merlin had grinned and agreed.

Sir Leon had made a point also of stopping to speak to him, congratulate him. "You have amazing good luck," the knight said. "I'm pleased that Arthur has you."

"I'm pleased you recommended the hardened leather," Merlin returned. "Only think what a burn I would have had with all the holes there are in chainmail."

Sir Leon smiled. "I still have your pack, if you'd like it returned," he reminded him.

"Oh, yes, please," Merlin said. "Gaius has already assigned me herb-gathering duties."

He was surprised when the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl that Arthur had flirted with at the combatants' feast approached him, elegant in a salmon-pink dress embroidered with white flowers across the bodice. "I'm Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen," she introduced herself.

"Right, I'm Merlin," he said, awkwardly offering his right hand, which was tangled in the sling. She took it gracefully, and carefully.

"You were so brave," she said. "That was incredible, what you did for him."

Merlin scoffed a little. "You may be the only one who thinks so," he said. "Everyone else seems to believe that I either begged for my life like a coward, or planned all along to leave the arena at Arthur's side in hopes of enchanting him to do my bidding later on."

She gave him a puzzled frown. "Surely not," she said. "I mean, surely people don't really think those things, do they?"

"It doesn't matter," Merlin said. "They don't know me, and the important thing is that Arthur knows the truth."

"Arthur!" Gwen exclaimed, the blush coloring her dusky complexion with a rosy pink.

Arthur, who had come up at Merlin's side, bowed slightly to the girl. "My lady," he said gallantly, and Merlin had to hide a smile. Arthur shoved Merlin's good shoulder.

Gwen curtsied prettily. "My champion," she returned playfully.

Uther called then for everyone's attention, beckoning for Arthur. Merlin stayed in his place by the wall, in the shadows, but to his surprise, Gwen stayed by him. Arthur knelt before the king on a red velvet pillow, and a golden circlet studded with diamonds was placed on his head. The king held a small jeweled rod of state between them.

"Do you solemnly swear," Uther began, his voice ringing out over the hushed gathering, "to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs, and laws laid down by our forebears?"

Arthur said, in a strong, confident voice, "I do, sire."

"Do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?"

Arthur reached to take hold of the jeweled rod. "I, Arthur of Camelot, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples."

Gwen leaned over and whispered, "How does it feel to be the servant of the crown prince of Camelot?" Merlin, incapable of words at the moment, merely snorted and grinned. She nudged him gently. "You're proud of him, I can see it in your face."

"From henceforth," Uther proclaimed, "you shall be Crown Prince of Camelot. My honorable guests, I give you – Prince Arthur!"

The golden-haired warrior, Merlin's best friend, stood and turned, accepting the applause of the nobility with grace, nodding here and there. But when he met Merlin's eyes, he grinned, and inclined his head with its crowned-prince's circlet in a small bow of appreciation to his sorcerer.

**A/N: You will maybe recognize dialogue from the following episodes: Season 1 ep.1 "The Dragon's Call", ep.2 "Valiant" ep.4 "The Poisoned Chalice", ep.9 "Excalibur", and ep.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur". It's just too good not to use!**

**I suppose I should also credit "Gladiator" with some of the imagery also…**


	11. The Nightmare Begins Anew

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 1: The Nightmare Begins Anew**

In the second year that Arthur was prince of Camelot, King Cenred sent a messenger to Uther with a singular and yet familiar proposition. Arthur himself didn't hear the proposition until two days after the king and council received it. They had two more days worth of time to cogitate and discuss and plot, which considerations were far from the minds of Arthur and Merlin, as they traveled leisurely down the road from Ealdor back to Camelot.

The prince was glad they'd finally gotten the time to make the journey and spend a fortnight with Merlin's family. It had revealed quite a lot, actually, about the young sorcerer, the prince mused, turning in his saddle to watch his friend's family. Hunith was perched behind Balinor, in the saddle of Merlin's horse, while Merlin loped alongside. Balinor was, again, trying to gently argue his son into taking a turn riding – despite the older man's obvious limp when he walked – and was having no luck.

Arthur's first impression of Ealdor had been one of well-disguised shock. No wonder Merlin had been sent to the heir-games in return for a sack of grain. The people lived in hovels, grubbed in the dirt with old and broken tools, shared a mule and a cart and a well. Arthur's bed in Camelot was bigger than the one Balinor and Hunith shared, and the crown prince had joined his friend on the floor of a hut that would have fit into the Camelot bedchamber, the anteroom not included.

Arthur's second impression of village life was much better. The people had next to nothing, but they were humble and hard-working and resourceful. They were respectful of Arthur's new status without being obsequious, and while they allowed him to help with the work, no one ever expected it of him, and all were appreciative of it.

Arthur's third impression was a faint passing shadow the first week. Balinor was something of a loner, preferring to hunt or trap or gather in the forest rather than work the fields, and Hunith was so kind and generous she was a friend to all. But their son… The first week Arthur ascribed Merlin's touch of melancholy and the hesitant awkwardness of the people to the absence of Merlin's best friend Will, who had left some months earlier to look for other work in Cenred's kingdom.

"He was bored without you, Merlin," Hunith had explained. "He was just – at loose ends."

"He could've come to Camelot," Merlin had argued, sitting at the wood plank table beside Arthur, the firelight on their faces.

"He's too proud for that, you know as well as I do," Balinor said from the darker corner where he'd tipped his chair back and lit his pipe.

The second week Arthur was becoming more sensitive to the glances the villagers gave his friend, which ought to have passed the stage of self-consciousness in the presence of one they'd let walk to the arena to his death, and who was now back in their midst. There remained a lack of congenial conversation in the fields or while occupied with other jobs. There was a distinct mistrust of Merlin's casual use of magic to aid his daily chores, something Arthur had grown accustomed to in Camelot even in one short year – and these folk had lived with it all Merlin's life.

Once Arthur had opened his mouth to advise his friend that the people were jealous, hadn't he considered offering to use his magic to help them also, when he realized – they didn't want Merlin, his magic or his help. They congratulated Arthur on his victory, praising his skills. They excused themselves to other duties when he tried to credit Merlin, or gave him looks of disbelief, or began to argue only to snap their mouths shut and bow.

By the time the four of them had made their plans for Balinor and Hunith to accompany them back to Camelot, Arthur was rather tempted to beg them to stay in the city permanently so a return to Ealdor would never be necessary. Camelot, at least, had welcomed Merlin. After a year, the nobility had accepted the young sorcerer, had mostly cleared their suspicions of ulterior motives in the arena. And the common folk had loved him, it seemed, from the moment he'd tripped making his grand entrance into the fray.

Behind him, Merlin grunted, and Hunith said, "Oh, Merlin." Arthur twisted around to see his friend's lanky form sprawled in the dust of the track, his wide grin white in his dirt-darkened face.

"Ye gods, boy," Balinor said. "_Now_ will you please get on the horse?"

Arthur turned his own mount, as Merlin picked himself up and started to argue with his parent. "No, Father, you know your leg pains you –"

"Well, now _your_ leg pains _you_," Balinor pointed out.

"I have the solution," Arthur announced, kicking his left foot free from his stirrup, and reaching his arm down. "Climb up here behind me, Merlin."

"Oh, no, sire, I couldn't possibly –" Merlin objected, inspecting his elbow and giving it a brisk rub.

"Merlin, obey your liege," Balinor rumbled in amusement.

Merlin stepped into the stirrup, his elbow crooked around Arthur's for balance. "Are you sure we're not too heavy for this horse?" he wondered aloud.

Arthur grinned, facing their mount toward Camelot once again. Now that they'd shaken the dust of Ealdor from their feet and breathed freer air, Merlin's spirits had perked up considerably. "Are you calling me _fat_, Merlin?" he said in a tone of mock outrage.

"Of course not, sire," Merlin assured him. "Although, if I recall correctly, the extra sausage did go to your plate this morning. And yesterday, and the day before –"

Arthur's elbow caught in Merlin's ribs, making him grunt, as Hunith chided gently, "Merlin," and Balinor's hearty chuckle rang out.

With the weight of two extra passengers for the horses to deal with, it took them nearly twice as long to make the return trip to Camelot. They entered the gates with an hour to spare before they were closed for the night, and Arthur saved the dispute over where Merlin's parents would stay – Balinor insisted upon an upper room at the Rising Sun – by leading them to his mother's home instead of the tavern. His old room, empty now for a year, would be perfect for the couple, and his mother would be glad of the company.

Ygraine, as Arthur had expected, welcomed them warmly – and effusively, to the point of breaking into tears as she embraced Hunith, whispering, "Thank you," over and over into the country woman's ear. As she had spent several months greeting Merlin this way whenever they met, the young sorcerer only looked slightly self-conscious.

Arthur chose to rescue his friend, and save himself the embarrassment of re-living the events of the arena, who was more responsible for saving whose life. "Merlin and I are going to return to the citadel," he said, when Ygraine mentioned dinner. "I have some catching-up to do with reports and so on, and Merlin can get our dinners from the kitchen."

"I'll see you both tomorrow," Merlin promised his parents.

"Not too early," Balinor said. "I have an old friend I'm planning to visit tonight."

"Oh? Anyone I know?" Ygraine said innocently, but was distracted by Hunith asking a question about the herbs the Camelot native grew in her window-boxes.

"I didn't know your father knew anyone in Camelot," Arthur said, once they were mounted on their own horses again, and headed up from the lower town.

"I didn't either," Merlin answered.

Arthur urged his horse to a faster pace. "Let's go, I'm hungry," he said.

"You're always hungry."

Arthur grinned because the younger man couldn't see it from behind him. This was why he enjoyed Merlin's company – he _always_ had something to say. "That's because I'm so _active_," Arthur said. "If I sat on my rear and read _books_ all day –"

"I don't read _all_ day," Merlin protested. "Gaius runs me near ragged fetching and carrying."

"Is that why you look like a scarecrow all the time?" Arthur shot back.

"Well, of the two of us, _I'm_ not the stuffed shirt…"

They rode into the castle courtyard, bickering comfortably, and were met by Sir Leon. "My lord," he greeted him, "Merlin. There's news – a messenger from Cenred. Uther requested your presence as soon as you returned."

Arthur sighed. So much for getting to eat and wash in his own quarters, first thing.

"I'll have your dinner and your bath ready for you," Merlin promised.

"Ah, no, sorry," Leon said. "Uther wants you as well, Merlin."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin gritted his teeth as he followed Arthur and Leon down halls and up stairs to the council chamber. While he was often present for meetings, standing respectfully – and silently – behind the crown prince's chair as his attendant, he had never been included by the king in word or look. His handful of absences had never been mentioned, and his presence was never requested.

It was something bad, he decided. Something he'd done? Maybe that goblet of wine he'd spilled over two of Lord Geoffrey's record-books in the library. Or there was that small matter of leaving the stable door open by mistake…

They marched into the king's presence, too soon to suit Merlin. Lord Geoffrey was there, bending with Uther over a large map spread on the table. Several council members and a handful of Leon's red-caped knights, and – Merlin sidled over to stand with Gaius, his back to a pillar.

"Welcome back, Merlin," Gaius said in a low voice. "I trust you had an enjoyable visit? Your parents are well?"

"Yes, and you'll get to meet them – tomorrow, I hope," Merlin whispered back. "They've come for a visit _here_."

Uther Pendragon cleared his throat, and the room was immediately silent. The king straightened, his hard gray eyes seeking out his heir. Arthur inclined his head respectfully. "There you are, Arthur," the king said, his tone one of disappointment rather than pleasure. "I expected your return two days ago – I trust you encountered no difficulties on the road?"

"I apologize for the delay, my lord," Arthur answered. He absorbed the implied criticism without offense, but made no excuses, for which Merlin was thankful, as it was his fault they were late. "Sir Leon mentioned a messenger from Cenred?"

"Yes," Uther said. "As you know, Cenred is himself without an heir, aside from a niece which his council will not accept as having a legitimate claim."

Arthur nodded. It was part of his education and training as Uther's heir, to learn about the ruling families of neighboring kingdoms, and as Arthur's shadow, Merlin had picked up some of those details also.

"He'd recently received information from his court physician that a passing illness has become more serious," Uther explained. "He applauded the ingenuity of our arena games last year. He and his council were inclined to make just such an attempt themselves."

What did that have to do with Camelot? Merlin wondered. Did Cenred maybe wish to use their amphitheatre? He would, if it was all right with Arthur, beg off attending that event.

"He further proposed for Camelot to join the games. The victor would then be a joint heir to both kingdoms."

Merlin saw Arthur stiffen. Beside him, Gaius shifted to watch his own reaction. He felt nothing but confusion. Why on earth would Cenred –

"Cenred has long wanted to attack and claim Camelot for his own," Arthur said, in the voice he used when his feelings did not match what he felt himself required as crown prince to say. "If he is willing to offer his own land to our champion as incentive for us to join this contest, we can safely assume that he is sure of winning."

"And yet, the opportunity he offered," Uther said. "I have long wanted to claim that pestilential den of vice he calls a kingdom. A little forceful cleaning, and it would be very productive territory – and increase Camelot's size by half again as much."

Arthur shook his head slowly. "I do not trust such an offer," he said. "Cenred cannot take Camelot, not if all his citizens were conscripted into the army."

"And Camelot cannot win a victory without much bloodshed on both sides," Uther countered.

"Why is conflict inevitable?" Arthur argued. "The treaty has kept peace for years."

"It is a moot point, however, Arthur," Uther countered. "I have already dispatched a messenger accepting the offer."

Merlin bridled at the insult to his prince, but Arthur merely inclined his head, his posture tense.

"We are studying this map," Uther went on, waving a hand to the scroll-covered end of the table, "to familiarize ourselves with the contest-ground. Cenred suggested, instead of the arena, that we stage the event in either the Valley of the Fallen Kings, or the Labyrinth of Gedref."

Arthur leaned his hands on the table, his eyes on the map. "The valley is full of bandits, thieves, and cutthroats," he said. "You would either have to clear them out or include them as an obstacle."

"I agree," Uther said, pleased for the first time since the two young men had entered the room. "My message to Cenred, therefore, specified the labyrinth as the setting for this contest. In two weeks' time, five champions from each kingdom will enter the labyrinth from ten different points, and one will emerge as future ruler of both kingdoms combined."

"What will Anhora have to say about this?" Arthur asked, referring to the keeper of the labyrinth, a man he and Merlin knew by name only.

"Anhora will have nothing to say," Uther stated irritably. "He will do as he is ordered. He will provide scrying-pools for Cenred and myself, of course, and a handful of ranking officials, that we may observe the contest and record the status of the combatants."

Arthur studied the map a moment longer, then straightened. "Sire, you have made your decision to accept the proposal, you have determined the time, the place, the number of champions." He paused, and Merlin's heart dropped – he _knew_ what was coming. "Why then have you requested my presence?"

Uther stared at him. "Isn't it obvious, Arthur?" he said. "As my proclaimed heir, you are consequentially and irrevocably enrolled as the first champion of Camelot."


	12. The Gift of Magic

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 2: The Gift of Magic**

_ Uther told Arthur, "As my proclaimed heir, you are consequentially and irrevocably enrolled as the first champion of Camelot."_

"Then I will be the second champion of Camelot." Merlin didn't even have to consider his words.

"Merlin!" Gaius hissed.

Arthur was staring at him like he wanted to give an order maybe, as the crown prince, tell Merlin to shut up, stand down -

"So be it," said the king.

Merlin watched Arthur transfer his gaze to their king, a fuller comprehension of something Merlin had already accepted dawning on his friend's face. That the crown prince would be included in a mad scramble for both kingdoms was hardly more than a matter of course, logical if cold and harsh. But Merlin – Uther had _counted_ on Merlin volunteering also.

_I solemnly swear to serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man, to the last drop of blood in my veins, the last breath of life in my lungs, the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always. _

"You do understand, don't you," the king continued, in a tone of easy assurance – of satisfaction, even – "both of you? It is to the death. Only…one…victor."

"I understand, my lord," Merlin said.

Uther looked at Arthur, who didn't immediately respond. Merlin watched the golden-haired warrior fight the urge to argue. It was intriguing, most of the time, to see how Arthur's respect for his king conflicted with his natural stubbornness, how the idealism finally melded with the practicality. Right now it was odd to think that he was the cause of Arthur's inner tension.

"Yes, sire," Arthur said aloud. "I understand." Merlin had seen it before a handful of times, when the heir would agree with his sovereign to his face, then find a way to _have_ his own way, later on. Merlin didn't see how it was possible, this time.

"Very well," the king said, nodding to Geoffrey, who seated himself at the table beyond the edge of the map, brought ink, and quill from an inner pocket of his robe, and began to compose the document both kings would sign, binding their agreement. "Prince Arthur of Camelot, and Merlin of –" he waved a hand to indicate that he'd forgotten where Merlin was from. Or didn't care.

"Merlin of Camelot," the sorcerer said softly.

"We'll need three more champions within ten days," Uther said to the room at large. "We meet in the morning to discuss a public proclamation as well as to compile a list of names for private invitation." He met the gaze of each council member – Gaius, Leon – then Arthur. "That is all."

Arthur turned and stalked from the chamber. Merlin hurried to take his place a step behind and beside him. "Do you want me to get –" Merlin started, but Arthur held up one hand to signal his desire for silence.

It lasted until they reached Arthur's chamber, and Merlin had closed the door behind them. "_Dammit_, Merlin!" Arthur exploded.

"Well, what did you expect me to do?" Merlin snapped back. "Sit beside the scrying pool to watch you and twiddle my thumbs and hope? Ten to one Cenred brings magic-users to fight for him, and _I am_ your defense against hostile magic."

"You're my friend, too," Arthur said. "And I wish you wouldn't –"

"Wouldn't what? Give my life for you? I'm here because you're here. My life isn't worth a hill of beans if some other champion comes out of this contest, and you know it." Merlin stepped up close to him. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he only wanted for Arthur to accept it. "So if I die watching your back and making sure you are the victor, so be it. That is my purpose in life, after all. Magic is my gift – and I give it to you."

Arthur kicked the chair away from the table and dropped into it, rubbing his forehead. "Damn Uther for a greedy soulless sonuva – goblin," he said, and Merlin grinned at the conviction that his friend had changed the last word at the last minute.

"That's treasonous," Merlin said lightly, beginning to arrange the room for Arthur's comfort after a two-week absence, opening the window for fresh air, turning down the coverlet on the bed.

"What am I going to say to your mother and father?" Arthur said.

Merlin paused in arranging the privacy screen before the tub. "Oh, hells, my mother," he groaned.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur had never considered Merlin a cowardly person. He himself, as the son of a knight and the crown prince, never shirked a duty. But neither of them was eager to enter Ygraine's home late the next morning, tired as they already were from Uther's council meeting. Merlin kept his self-appointed position slightly behind Arthur during their walk to the lower town, and remained there as Arthur knocked politely, pushing through the door of his mother's house. He remained there as Ygraine greeted her son and as Merlin's parents came into the kitchen, and put his back to the wall when Arthur seated himself at his mother's invitation.

"What is it, what's the matter?" Hunith demanded.

Ygraine took another look at the son she had greeted with warmth and affection, and saw whatever had struck Hunith immediately also.

Balinor took his eyes from Arthur's face to give his son, invisible to Arthur behind him, a searching glance. "What's happened?" he demanded.

Arthur said, "King Uther has this week taken an opportunity to absorb Cenred's kingdom into Camelot with a minimum of bloodshed."

His mother and Merlin's looked blank – this surely could not be interesting enough news to upset both their sons. Arthur clasped his hands together on the tabletop and studied his knuckles. "There will be a second round of arena-games, held in the Labyrinth of Gedref," he said, and had to clear his throat to continue. "Five champions from each kingdom, winner take all."

His mother said, in hesitant disbelief, "You mean, if Cenred's champion wins, he will be our king?"

"And you're Uther's first champion, aren't you, Arthur," Balinor said. Arthur nodded once, wincing at Ygraine's cry of horror, stifled behind her hand. Merlin's parents looked from Arthur back to Merlin simultaneously, and the expression in Hunith's eyes was just as tormenting as his own mother's lament. "Ah, hells, boy," Balinor said softly. "That means you volunteered too, didn't you?"

Merlin said nothing, but Hunith gave a miserable little moan as her fears were confirmed. Ygraine gasped sharply, and Arthur knew her thought instantly, it was clear on her face. The sudden hope Merlin's presence in the battle gave her for Arthur's safety conflicted with the knowledge that she or her new friends and houseguests must lose a son. Whatever she saw on Merlin's face, Arthur saw her turn aside, as if ashamed to be hopeful and grateful in the presence of his parents.

Hunith rose and circled the table, and Arthur turned to watch her reach her hands up to cradle Merlin's face. She was smiling through tears. "You break my heart," she told her son. "But I am proud of you."

It was nigh unbearable for Arthur. He addressed Balinor, somewhat desperate to explain, excuse, apologize, "I might have tried to talk him out of it, if it would have done any good. He seemed just as determined to enter as Uther was eager to have him do it."

"Hm." Balinor's eyes hadn't left Merlin. Sad, and proud, as Hunith's were. "Your king is not as much a friend of our Merlin as his heir, then, young prince?"

Arthur combed his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Tell you the truth," he said ruefully. "Uther has never wanted him at court."

Hunith murmured, her face pressed into the shoulder of Merlin's coat, "Would that I could take you home with me, then."

"Mother," Merlin grunted. "Ease up a bit, I can't breathe."

"Uther is a man suspicious by nature," Balinor observed, "and doubly so of magic. Merlin could spend the next decade proving his loyalty, and the king would still mistrust."

"It's a good thing I don't have a decade, then," Merlin said lightly. "Two weeks ought to do it, then he won't be able to argue."

"Two weeks?" Hunith whispered. Fresh tears started from her eyes and she clutched him close again.

"Let me know when you find out who the other champions are," Balinor told Arthur. "My – friend – may have some useful information for you."

The next ten days were extremely busy for Arthur. Meetings, discussions, studying, training… more training. Scheduled periods of rest when he couldn't keep still. Reactions of those around him to deal with, from the pleasantly poignant encounter with Guinevere in a hidden alcove – soft tears, and even softer kiss – to Leon's sympathetic yet silent support, to Uther's calculating greed. All of it was exhausting.

And what was worse, he could never get more than a minute or two, a word or two, with Merlin. Busy as Arthur was, his friend was even busier.

Gaius had been advised, quite callously, by Uther, to begin to train a replacement, but both sorcerers, old man and young boy alike, seemed to Arthur to be resisting the change. Arthur overheard a snatch of a conversation from outside the physician's chamber door, on his way to yet another meeting and searching for his assistant to accompany him.

"Do you honestly think," he heard Gaius say in a tone of fond exasperation, "that you'll be able to remember any of these spells or incantations you're trying to cram into your head?"

Merlin's voice, softer, "I have to try, Gaius."

Arthur pushed the door open to find Merlin seated at a table covered with open books, pale with exhaustion and wincing as the old physician molded the muscles of his shoulders and neck with strong hands.

"It's not going to do you any good to push yourself so hard you're dead on your feet the moment you enter the labyrinth," Gaius continued, nodding to Arthur, who winced at the old man's choice of phrases – intentional, it seemed. "And no matter what you may have been told about osmosis, you cannot learn new spells by falling asleep with your head on the books!"

When Merlin wasn't with Gaius, he was in the lower town with his parents. Arthur knew he was the only one who would not accept the near-inevitability of the farm-boy's death, so he encouraged his friend to spend as much time as possible with Hunith and Balinor, even to the point of doing some of his own errands and receiving a reprimand for it by Uther.

"This is your time of preparation as Camelot's first champion," the king had stated sternly, as Arthur had tried – and failed – to hide the folded stack of clean sheets he was carrying to his chamber. "Your boy swore to serve you – so let him do it!"

Two days before Cenred's deputation was scheduled to arrive, Uther settled on two of the other three champions for Camelot. The first was a man Uther had persuaded to come, the man who served as the judge for the sorcerer's court, rendering verdicts of guilty or innocent to magic-users accused of any crime, and answerable only to Uther. The other was a woman who had requested entrance to the contest, her age being of greater concern than her gender, as Arthur understood it, closer to the king than his heir numerically. He couldn't pin Uther down on whether either one of the candidates would enter as warrior or sorcerer or both, which gave him pause.

"I would think," Merlin said, as they headed back to Arthur's chamber after that meeting, "he would choose three more champions who understood that their task was to get you through alive. Form a team. Don't you think Cenred's five will work together?"

"I would be surprised if that wasn't his plan," Arthur answered. "And I'm sure he is well aware that Camelot's most ambitious dozen are down to you and me. However, once in the arena – or labyrinth, whatever – loyalties can change. It will probably come down to every man for himself."

"Or woman," Merlin added humorously. Arthur wondered if the sorcerer's loyalty was really so deep and instinctive that it hadn't even occurred to him to argue his exclusion from "every man for himself."

They reached Arthur's door, but Merlin kept walking. "Where are you going?" Arthur said. It was dinnertime, and he'd expected to eat and strategize with his friend.

"My father wanted to know the names Uther decided on," Merlin explained, turning to walk backwards, to face Arthur as he spoke while still covering distance. "He said his friend might have some information that would be useful to us." He shrugged. "I'll see you tomorrow." He reached the end of the hall and disappeared.

As Uther's heir, Prince Arthur of Camelot should have been present to welcome King Cenred and the other guests from the neighboring kingdom. As a champion, he was kept sequestered until the banquet that evening. Unfortunately, that meant that he and Merlin were kept apart, also. As another manservant, whose name he could not recall, helped him don and arrange his chainmail, the ceremonial red cloak, and his prince's diamond-studded circlet, he wondered what clothing was being provided for the young sorcerer.

As Uther's heir, Arthur entered the banquet hall at the king's elbow, accepting the obeisance of the guests already gathered, then looked around to find Merlin at his own elbow, clean royal blue shirt covered by the red thigh-length tunic embroidered with Camelot's rampant golden dragon, the twin of the one on the back of his cloak.

"What's the matter with you?" Arthur asked. The young sorcerer's face was grim for a celebration, even one held on the eve of battle. "Can't you try to relax a little, at least for tonight? Plenty of time for –"

"My father is gone," Merlin whispered tersely. "Went out two days ago to speak to his friend, didn't return to your mother's house last night."

That was unlike Balinor, Arthur knew. He opened his mouth to suggest maybe the older man had gone to drown his sorrows at the tavern, and had gotten carried away – though that was unlike Merlin's father, also – when Lord Geoffrey announced from the door, "His Majesty, King Cenred."

In strode a man Uther's junior by a good fifteen years. Lean, wolfish, dressed in black and leather, his hair hanging down by the sides of his face as he kept his chin down, glaring in a predatory manner at the world from under heavy brows. He didn't look ill, Arthur thought, before Geoffrey was announcing the five foreign champions.

The first two were warriors, one as fair as the other was dark, though the dark one had an expression of cynical mirth, while the blonde was suitably grave for the occasion. There was a third warrior, a compact man whose eyes, hair, and skin were dark as the shadows; Arthur didn't bother to remember the names – Merlin surely would know them, if it was important. His attention was focused on the combatant announced third – a sharp-featured woman with long blonde ringlets and eyes rimmed in kohl, dressed as a male warrior, even to the banquet. Morgause, Cenred's rumored niece, but she looked several years older than Arthur himself, at least. He wondered as to the accuracy of the relationship, especially considering the look in Cenred's eye as she was introduced. It was likely that she was meant to be Cenred's victor.

As the last name was called, and a fourth warrior in chainmail and a yellow tunic stepped forward, Merlin startled and gasped, eyes widening in shock. Arthur's mind replayed Geoffrey's words of introduction. _Will_ – and he caught Merlin's sleeve.

"That's your friend?" he whispered. "From Ealdor?"

"Yeah." Merlin looked bewildered, hurt. The young man bowing to Uther glanced sideways through the crowd, seeming to search for someone in particular, rested his gaze on Merlin with a pinched expression.

Arthur noticed something else. Both Uther and Cenred were also watching Merlin for his reaction.

He and Merlin were, probably, the biggest obstacle to Cenred's victory. And Uther would be thrilled if Merlin never emerged from the labyrinth. Arthur would have paid good gold coin to learn how exactly Merlin's childhood friend had ended up a champion for Cenred, and just exactly what kind of agreement the two kings might have made.

Lord Geoffrey concluded his speech of introduction and welcome, and Uther's voice rose over the murmur of guests' voices. "I am pleased to present Prince Arthur Pendragon, winner of last year's games and my proclaimed heir, first champion of Camelot."

Arthur strode forward to give the bow proper to his king and royal guest, Merlin following just behind and beside as he always did, as if the shock had robbed him of volition and he kept his place by force of habit. "And Merlin of Camelot, the second champion," Uther added. Arthur stepped to the side, drawing his friend with him, worried. Merlin's eyes were down, his face blank. Was he furious, scared, grief-stricken? Arthur couldn't tell, and it bothered him.

Uther signaled for Geoffrey to continue. "Third champion of Camelot, Aredian, premier judge of the sorcerer's circuit." He was an older man also, Arthur saw, with iron-gray hair and pale eyes, wearing no obvious weapon, but if he was unarmed, then Arthur was a turnip.

"Fourth champion of Camelot, the lady Catrina." She did indeed look middle-aged, beauty still present, but it was clear to Arthur that the fine clothes and arranged hair and pleasant expression were all just a mask. A sorceress, then, most likely. What was Uther's game? These two would not support Arthur in the conflict, would they? Was Uther angling for a new heir? Or just making sure he was the strongest and smartest after all, while separating him – permanently – from his loyal sorcerer?

Geoffrey paused, and Cenred glanced from the official to King Uther expectantly. "What of your fifth champion, Pendragon?" he said, with a feral grin.

Uther returned the grin. "We have this very day chosen our fifth champion," he said. "You do recall, I assume, our years of warfare to rid the land of the peculiar and powerful scourge of dragonkind?"

"Who could forget?" Cenred returned shortly, glowering. "I myself owe my declining health to an injury dragon-inflicted."

"You are also aware that I had captured and imprisoned one of the oldest of that dread species, not far from this city, in a great cavern beneath the ground?" Uther continued, obviously enjoying the gasp and whispering of his crowd of guests, and Cenred's own unease. "Camelot's fifth champion has the distinction of being the last of an ancient race of men rumored to be able to control the beasts."

Cenred sat forward in his high-backed chair to Uther's left, leaning on the wide armrest. "You have a _dragonlord_?" he growled.

For answer, Uther motioned to a guard at a side door, who led in a prisoner, a tall man in chains binding hands and feet alike. A man whose long hair, black sprinkled with gray, hung loose about his face, a man whose skin was bruised and whose beard was matted with dried blood. A man who limped in a way that was familiar to Arthur…

Into the expectant hush of a fascinated room, Merlin said in an awful voice, "_Father_?"


	13. The Labyrinth of Gedref

**A/N: Ok, apologies to those who thought me harsh for putting Balinor and Will into the arena with our two heroes… Here is a long-ish chapter as my penance. **

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 3: The Labyrinth of Gedref**

Arthur really was in no hurry to reach the Labyrinth. He was, however, in a hurry to be done with the ride. Two hours, they'd been told, at the same time that they'd received their assigned positions within the cavalcade. Talking with the other combatants was discouraged, and the guard assigned to Arthur was new, young, and understandably tongue-tied around his crown prince once again facing death.

Almost, it had been better, before. The first combatants' feast, he had teased a farm boy with wide blue eyes and flirted with a black-haired noble girl. He'd enjoyed the food, the wine, not really worried about the arena-trial. He would win, or he would die. Simple.

Until he'd really spoken to Lancelot, and to Merlin.

Until he began to respect those two of his competitors, owe them for his life. Until that wide-eyed farm-boy somehow became his best friend. Now he cared, and now he worried.

The two kings rode in the front with the honor guard. They'd been chatting since the procession left the city – another thing Arthur didn't want two hours to think about. He'd seen his mother in the crowd, waving to him – tearful but not hopeless – but next to her, Hunith.

The country woman's tears had streamed freely, her arms held tightly around her as she watched for both husband and son, knowing they could not both return. Arthur averted his eyes quickly, not wanting to see her expression should her gaze fall on him – his survival meant neither of her men-folk would return.

No. He would not accept that. Somehow, he'd find a way around the restrictions.

In front of Arthur rode Aredian, the magic-judge Uther had requested, next to Cenred's blonde warrior, each ignoring the other. Arthur wondered what Aredian might have been told, or promised. What would persuade a man to enter this contest when his king already had a proclaimed heir? Would Aredian kill him for the kingdom? Had Uther promised a handsome reward to the man's family if he died protecting Arthur? But he hadn't so much as glanced at him.

To Arthur's right was the Lady Catrina, still simpering and posturing though there was no one but him and the guard. Behind them trundled a cart, drawn by a team of horses, driven by one guard. A second rode beside the first, facing backward, crossbow at the ready. Two of the combatants were in the cart, chained to their seats.

Balinor, as Uther's prisoner – _dragonlord? prisoner? combatant? what the hell?_ – Arthur could hardly believe it, even now. The other prisoner was one of Cenred's warriors, the one with the cynical grin and dark hair and beard. There was a mystery there, and an opportunity, perhaps. He was present under duress in a way that Balinor was not. Arthur knew Merlin's father possessed magic, though he gathered it was nowhere near as strong as his son's, still, escape at any time shouldn't have been too hard for the man. Arthur wondered if Balinor might not have managed to get himself volunteered. From what Merlin had said about his entrance into the first arena-contest, it might have been a different story had Balinor not been absent from the village on a hunting trip when the messenger arrived. By the time the father had returned to Ealdor, the messenger with the grain and the news of the heir and his sorcerer had been halfway back.

Arthur twisted round in his saddle, seeing the back of Balinor's head as he watched his son, mounted in position just behind the cart. _Ye gods_, he realized, it ran in the family. Balinor was fully prepared to die making sure his son was safe. He was not content either, it seemed, to sit and twiddle his thumbs and hope.

Arthur was strategist enough to wonder if that made Balinor his enemy today, and friend enough to be disgusted with himself at the thought.

He weaved a little in his saddle, trying to get a better look at his friend. Merlin rode with his head down, paying no attention to the father ahead of him, or the childhood friend who brought up the rear with Cenred's shadow-warrior, who wore no sword but carried a crossbow. He paid no attention to the blonde sorceress next to him – beautiful, powerful, dangerous, possibly considered a princess in her own country – who looked on him with such obvious contempt.

Arthur was worried. Balinor's presentation the previous night, so close upon the heels of Will's introduction, had very nearly provoked – a riot, a civil war, a coup – he did not know what to call it.

Merlin had stalked right up to the two kings – dressed little better than a servant among all the finery in the hall, he still somehow managed to command the atmosphere of the entire hall by sheer _presence_. A powerful, angry sorcerer. Arthur had never seen Merlin angry. Never. Exasperated, hurt, scared, yes. Tired, worried, determined – _grouchy_, yes.

Guards had jumped in his way, only to be brushed away like so much lint from his tunic from several feet away. Did anyone in the hall breathe as Merlin had demanded, in a thunderously quiet voice, "What is the meaning of _this_?"

Uther actually sat back in his seat, and Arthur saw in an instant the king had never fully realized how much Merlin _allowed_ Uther's disdain. Cenred looked between the two as if thanking his lucky stars he wasn't the focus of those furious blue eyes. Balinor himself tried to interrupt, was pulled up short by his guard – who was immediately tossed several yards away with a jerk of Merlin's tousled head. The crack of the guard's helmet hitting the stone column was audible throughout the hall.

Arthur went right over the table to get to Merlin's side, to put himself between Uther and the boy before one of them did something Arthur would regret.

"Merlin, look at me, focus on me, calm down, now, easy," he'd murmured a lot of soothing nonsense, the way he would to a spooked horse. Merlin had looked at him, and the gold had faded back to blue.

"My _father_," Merlin had whispered to him.

"I know," he'd said. "I know. We'll figure it out." He glanced back at the king, who wore an unmistakable get-him-out-of-here look, though probably he didn't dare to say it. _Ah, Merlin, yet another reason for Uther to hate and fear you_, he thought as he led Merlin back to their table.

Merlin hadn't eaten anything. Pushing serving dishes, plates, tableware, goblets out of the way, he buried his head in his arms and didn't move again. Arthur stationed himself as his sorcerer's guard, and headed off the handful of people that had ventured to approach with his best kingly death-glare.

Their only company was, for a moment, Guinevere and a friend of hers, a cousin or something, new to Camelot. She was a little slip of a girl whose name Arthur had forgotten, if he'd ever known it, with eyes as dark and hair as long and wavy as Gwen's, but with skin several shades lighter than the older girl's warmer complexion. Guinevere gave him a shaky smile, tried to speak and couldn't, through her tears. Hanging on to Arthur's hand, she seated herself beside Merlin also, putting her arm around him to pet his black hair and lean to whisper in his ear.

Arthur wasn't jealous. He'd had his eye on Guinevere ever since they'd met, but figured Uther for the sort who'd want to initiate any discussion of his heir's nuptials, and would shoot a proposition full of fiery arrows if it wasn't his own. Merlin, though he'd blushed and stammered his way through a couple of temporary-attraction situations, had never seemed anything but comfortably friends with Gwen, as if he'd understood more about Arthur's feelings and intentions than either had ever voiced.

Whatever Gwen had said to Merlin, he straightened, letting his arms drop, and turned to look at the other girl. His face was white, his eyes dark, and both blank.

"Thank you," the girl had spoken so quietly, so privately and intimately, to his friend, that Arthur felt guilty for what he heard. She pushed back the silk of her sleeve and Merlin's eyes dropped down to take in the darkly swirled symbol on the inside of her wrist. "You are – an inspiration. To all of us. Thank you, Emrys." She slid a wide burgundy ribbon from her sleeve, rolled it in her fingers, and bent to tuck it into his hand. She held his gaze another moment, then curtsied to Arthur, and she and Gwen had left them alone again. Merlin watched the girl until she was out of sight in the crowd, then had wrapped his arms around his head on the table once again.

_Emrys_? Arthur thought, but did not dare to ask.

After the banquet, the champions were sequestered once again. Arthur had paced for a good hour after the door had shut behind his personal guard, worrying about what had been done with Merlin. Had they led, dragged, carried him to a room? Would Gaius see to him? He remembered sharing the room with Lancelot and Merlin, and wished the accommodations had been the same, this time.

Then he remembered the one combatant who'd been dead when they woke, and was glad. At least no one else was with Merlin.

"There it is!" the new guard at Arthur's side exclaimed, and Arthur looked up from his thoughts. A great field lay before them in the valley between two tall hills, filled with a square pattern of hedges – just thick lines, from this distance. His first impression was that the labyrinth was laid out in square sections, rather than rounded, but then he realized that there were both. Straight walls, curved walls, angled walls. Several miles' worth. The amphitheatre outside Camelot could have fit into the valley half a dozen times.

He wondered about water, about food. He wondered if they'd be spending the night.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin deliberately wrapped oblivion around himself like an ankle-length cloak with a deep hood. After losing his temper at the banquet, his magic seemed on edge within him, alert and ready, spoiling for a fight, as his father used to say.

Father. And Will. And Arthur. There was no choice for heir but Arthur, and he'd gladly give his life any day for the golden-haired warrior who was now his prince. He would refuse to kill his father or Will – but what if they attacked Arthur?

They wouldn't. They couldn't. His stomach turned at the thought that he could contemplate such treachery. He'd stop them all if he had to. _Just in case_, his magic hummed. He concentrated on his memory of Arthur's eyes – calm, steady. _We'll figure it out,_ he promised.

Twice since then he'd been tempted to release control of the simmering magic. Once, during the morning procession from the city. A brief glimpse of the agony in his mother's eyes had him mentally cataloguing each weapon in the cavalcade, calculating the distance between himself and the two kings, then whatever guards might threaten, whatever combatants might oppose him…

No. Focus on Arthur. Calm down. Not like this.

"Merlin?" his father had said once, just past the gates of Camelot. Balinor leaned toward him on the bench of the cart where he was chained.

He didn't answer his parent, but when the guard snapped, "No talking!" shifting his weapon in his grip, Merlin had lifted his head to glare at the man, feeling the molten gold in his eyes. The guard blanched and sat back.

"Merlin," Balinor spoke again, quickly. _This isn't what your magic is for. Not to attack. Not to seize command. Remember what I taught you. If you use your magic to force your will on the world, on the people around you, you are nothing but a tyrant. You use it to protect. To serve._

He didn't look up again, but he held the words like a lifeline to sanity.

Merlin's first indication that they'd reached the conclusion of their ride was the realization that his mount had halted. And the cart in front of him. Everyone else was dismounting, so he did the same. He kept his eyes down, but he knew to the inch where Arthur was, and Balinor, and Will – how far, and in what direction, though he recalled speaking no spell. He supposed, in a distant sort of way, that it would be smart to use such a spell on all the combatants, in such an arena, but didn't.

He didn't actually know _how_ to, after all.

He found himself in a line, the sorceress with the scornful eyes breathing unpleasantly down his neck, the swordsman with the devil-may-care grin and the chains still on his wrists turning to ask him, "You okay, mate?"

Merlin didn't answer, just shuffled along behind the dark-haired warrior. When the man stepped away, he was at a table carved from stone, a scroll of parchment unrolled and held in place with little stone markers. He watched disinterestedly as his hand was taken in another's, turned palm-up. The ball of his thumb was pricked with a sharpened sliver of some hard white material, not bone nor wood, and was squeezed til blood welled. Then his hand was guided down to the parchment, his bloody thumbprint added to a row of such marks.

A _jolt_ flashed through him, and he jerked back, shuddering, as the cloak of oblivion shrugged away. His eyes focused sharply on the parchment, written in the runes of the old language, which Gaius was beginning to teach him. He caught a few phrases of uncertain wording – Swear upon life/soul/honor – Combat/fight/battle until my last enemy is vanquished – The victor/master is hereby tied/linked to the land/people –

He raised his gaze to the old man seated on the other side of the table. He wore a white robe and mantle with the hood up, his eyes and nose aquiline in shape and expression. In the crook of his arm rested a long staff with a three-point antler affixed to the top and a beaded grip with a small orange globe swinging from it.

"What have you done to me?" he demanded. Magic lingered over the parchment he'd just signed in blood.

_Peace, Emrys_. The old man's eyes held his. _You have nothing to fear from me_. Aloud he said, in a raspy though mild voice, "The two kings require a contract to bind the combatants to the task of determining the one worthy to rule their two lands."

"Anhora," Uther's voice snapped from somewhere behind and to Merlin's right. "This wastes time."

Someone plucked at Merlin's sleeve and he followed, stumbling, his eyes on Anhora as the keeper of the labyrinth took Morgause's hand to continue the ritual. He neither looked at nor spoke to Merlin again.

Merlin tripped. "Careful, now," the someone holding his sleeve said, and he was surprised to find himself following Sir Leon.

"Where are we going?" Merlin asked.

Leon answered, "Each champion is taken by a personal guard to his or her own entrance into the labyrinth." The knight looked back at him and gave him a compassionate smile. "I am your guard."

There was a footpath, he noticed, another red-caped guard and another combatant – Will, he thought, in the chainmail and yellow tunic – so far ahead of them that they were frequently hidden by turns in the trail. He stumbled over a root and looked back. The connection that told him where Arthur and Balinor were, told him that he was increasing the distance between them.

Through the foliage to his right as they hiked, Merlin caught glimpses of the outer wall of the labyrinth. It was seven feet tall, thick and green, leafy with offshoots like a hedge that had missed its yearly trimming. They walked for some moments in silence, then Leon led him onto a side path, a very short side path that ended at a pair of stone columns flanking an opening into the labyrinth, as far apart as a man could reach with outstretched fingers.

"You need to be careful, Merlin," Leon said. "Uther would prefer Arthur the lone survivor. Cenred knows the two of you will fight as one. Your father and your friend –" he began, but both of them turned their head to watch another red-caped guard escort the blonde sorceress Morgause along the path, past Merlin's turn-off point, continuing on until they were both out of sight.

"I thought you'd probably prefer this to chainmail," Leon said, and Merlin noticed the knight's burden for the first time. He lifted a hardened-leather hauberk over Merlin's head. As Sir Leon laced the armor tightly down one side, Merlin's fingers sought a hidden pocket and a throwing star, but didn't find it.

Then Leon held out his own pack, smelling now of the herbs he gathered for Gaius, and he turned to take it onto his shoulders, adjusting the two straps. "Each champion has been given two days' rations," Leon told him. "Bandages – and a full water pouch." He settled that over Merlin's head and one shoulder. "You'll pass the columns at midday. And you won't be allowed to exit the labyrinth until there is one survivor."

Merlin nodded. "Once again, thank you, Sir Leon," he said in a husky voice.

Leon stepped back. "You intend on fighting for Arthur's victory again, don't you?"

Merlin frowned slightly. "Of course."

The knight squinted up at the sun through the leaves high overhead. "It's almost time to –" he was interrupted by a sound from the columns, as if the stone had been lightly struck with a blade, singing its vibration. "There's your signal. Good luck, Merlin." He put out his hand, and as Merlin reached to take it, Leon suddenly thrust his forward to clasp his fingers about Merlin's forearm. A salutation between comrades-in-arms.

Merlin nodded, and moved forward, shivering at the sensation of a fine, invisible mist as he passed between the pillars. He glanced back and saw nothing, but knew he would find it physically impossible to retrace his steps, should he try to exit the labyrinth.

He stepped to the first juncture, a path running parallel to the outer wall, and glanced both ways. Arthur was to his right.

The tall hills to either side of the valley were always visible, along with a large tree growing somewhere toward the center of the maze. Sometimes the end of a row brought several options for a new route, sometimes it was a curved turn that took him back, resulting in a five-minute walk and an actual distance covered of about eight feet, sometimes even in a dead end. Merlin was soon frustrated. Of course that was the point of a labyrinth, to prevent a straight route anywhere, but every moment that passed without a sight of Arthur – or any other champion, for that matter – made him nervous.

Two days' rations. And he could survive a week on the water, if necessary. Were they meant to run wildly through? Creep along? It was possible, he thought, for ten people to wander a week without ever meeting one another, in here. He wondered if Uther had considered the mental obstacles when using this place as his arena. He wondered if Cenred had formed any plots before proposing the labyrinth alongside the valley of the Fallen Kings.  
He wondered if it was allowed to climb up the leafy hedge-walls and leap from one to the next – whether the advantage of a clear line of sight would be worth making himself a target for anyone around.

He turned to the wall next to him and wormed his arm into it, scratching his skin on the sharp, stiff twigs. When the leaves and tiny yellow flowers were tickling his face and his ear, his outstretched fingertips still felt hedge. He pushed his arm down, and it dropped with little resistance. It wouldn't hold his weight, then.

He scuffed at the packed earth of the path, the noon sun overhead shimmering on occasional puddles that formed on the clay. Tunneling wasn't really an option. He'd get to Arthur in a straight line, sure, and be fairly safe from other champions as he went, but he'd be a sitting duck should anyone find the mouth of the tunnel, and the amount of magic it would take would leave him exhausted and useless once he finally popped up at Arthur's side.

He could, he supposed, burn a sizeable hole _through_ the walls with a single fast fireball… he breathed in the cool green scent of the crushed leaves and bent twigs his foray into the hedge had left on his sleeve, and decided against it.

Slow and steady, then.

He'd been focused primarily on Arthur's location, and was encouraged to find it nearing, when he realized that he sensed Will just behind him, only four yards or so. He turned. Quiet, green avenues, corners. He could hear nothing but his heart and a little breeze shuffling over the hedges.

Was it worth the risk of speaking? He slipped to the end of the aisle, risked a look. Two choices – continue at right angles, or move back parallel to his original course. He checked Will's position, moved to another juncture, waited.

He heard his friend's footsteps on the packed earth, and just before he reached the corner, Merlin said, "Will." The footsteps stopped.

"Merlin?" Will said.

"It's me," he answered, and stepped out at the same time as Will. For a moment neither reacted, gauging the other warily. Will's sword was drawn, but down at his side, as Merlin's empty hands were. After a moment in which it was clear neither would attack the other, Merlin cleared his throat. "What made you come?"

Will grimaced as he approached him. "Rotten timing and my own big mouth," he said. "When I left Ealdor, I went to Cenred. Figured since my da died serving him, I might ask for a place in his service. He welcomed me, invited me to join him for dinner, got me talking about Ealdor and –" Will grimaced again – "you. I ended up swearing into his service – and between him and his sorceress-niece, I found I didn't have a choice when he ordered me to this contest."

Merlin didn't say anything. He hated the suspicion that sprang into his mind, but couldn't shake it. And couldn't voice the questions, either. Had Cenred given him any orders to obey? To serve Morgause? To distract him? To kill Arthur?

"What are we going to do?" Will said. "Blast a hole through the outer wall and make a run for it?" He said the last as a joke, but there was something in his eyes that made Merlin suspect he wished Merlin would agree to that.

"I have to get to Arthur," he said, starting to walk again, checking the corner before choosing a new path.

Will huffed, but followed him. "So why did _you_ come, Merlin?" he said.

"Arthur," Merlin said. "One day he'll be a great king. I protect him."

"I heard you're just a servant," Will said.

Merlin side-stepped a puddle. He studied the mushroom-top of the great tree off to their left, and chose another avenue. "It's not like that, really."

"How's it like then?" Will was genuinely curious.

"Well," he paused at another intersection, this one with three choices. He felt for the connection, waited to see what Arthur would do. "I groom and exercise his dogs and horses, but I don't clean the kennels or muck out the stables, and both of us tend his training and ceremonial armor. I carry the laundry but I don't have to wash it. I bring him his meals but I don't have to cook the food, and half the time I end up eating with him. I go with him to meetings, and anytime he leaves the citadel."

"You scrub his floors and sew his buttons on?" Will said, deliberately trying to provoke him.

"No, that's what maids and seamstresses are for," Merlin said, without taking offense, and stepped out to take the middle route.

Will caught his shoulder. "Merlin. I saw you at the banquet," he said. "Your magic – with the power you have, why are you using it to protect this prince? You're strong enough to defeat anyone – everyone, aren't you? What's stopping you? _Use it_, and no one else has to die."

"I – can't," Merlin said, feeling tears prick at his eyes. He pulled away. _Not to attack. Not as a tyrant. Protect, and serve, and – Arthur._

The prince was close – two, maybe three rows away. He started to jog, Will close behind him. They came to the end of that row – and it suddenly opened into a hub of leafy paths.

"Merlin!" Will called urgently, and he turned his head to catch a flash of a figure that was neither Arthur nor Balinor.

He threw up his hand, gasping out, "_Cume theoden_," and a vicious dust-devil whipped up loose earth, twigs, droplets from the puddle, rushing down the aisle toward the enemy, and Merlin and Will ducked down the first path on the right – then left – then right again, just to put some distance between them and the enemy.

They rounded a corner, had to double back, and Merlin's magic gave him enough of a warning that he stopped short of impaling himself on his prince's ready sword. He gulped for breath as Arthur gave a short, incredulous laugh.

"Merlin!" he said, dropping his sword to pull Merlin into an awkward, left-armed hug. He retreated, but kept his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I was worried about you," he said, his sky-blue eyes searching Merlin's. "Are you with me?" he said, and Merlin understood what he was truly asking.

"Always," he answered. "Arthur, I don't think you've properly met my friend Will." He turned, catching an odd expression on his first friend's face – disbelief, fascination, a bit of grudging respect.

"Will," Arthur said, extending his hand. "It's a helluva place and time to be making your acquaintance, but – any friend of Merlin's is a friend of mine."

"You're joking," Will said. He didn't take Arthur's hand.

"No, I'm not." Arthur threw Merlin a quizzical look.

Merlin wasn't paying much attention. He had Will, he had Arthur. Balinor was close as well, he thought, maybe less than twenty yards away. But in this place, it could take them an hour to connect with him. Eager to be on the move, he began shuffling away.

Behind him, he sensed the other two turn, raise their weapons in a swift simultaneous jerk. Merlin turned –

Will shouted, "Look out!" and shoved Arthur into Merlin, who lost his balance and crashed into the hedge, unintentionally pulling Arthur with him. He heard the faintest – _twang_! – over the sound of his prince's startled yelp and the snapping and crackling of the hedge. He threw out both arms, bellowing "_Cume theoden_!" sending whirlwinds spiraling out from them defensively.

Arthur scrambled off his legs. "Merlin!" he said urgently, kneeling on the packed-earth path. Merlin struggled from the brambles to find Will on his back, resting clumsily on the pack strapped to his back.

With an arrow in his chest.

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep. 1.10 "The Moment of Truth", as well as Merlin's spell.**


	14. The Last Dragonlord

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 4: The Last Dragonlord**

"You saved my life!" Arthur said in remorseful astonishment, then glanced up and down the green aisle they were in for any sign of their attacker. Merlin didn't bother; he trusted Arthur to protect them.

"Yeah!" Will gasped. "Don't know what I was thinking."

Merlin reached to lay his hand on his friend's chest, the arrow shaft in the curve between thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

"Can you do anything for him?" Arthur said in a low voice. Will gasped and grimaced.

"Will," Merlin said, fighting for calm. "Can you hear me?" His friend's brown eyes met his. Pain there, but awareness remained. "It's right through your heart." He heard Arthur's breath hiss through his teeth, and the prince stood and stepped back, giving Merlin and Will privacy, while standing guard. "The arrow is blocking its own holes, now," Merlin continued, striving for the manner that Gaius used when dealing with patients. "You're not losing too much blood. But if I try to pull it out – " by hand or by magic – "I'll rip your heart in pieces."

"Then leave it!" Will wheezed.

"That'll give you minutes, only." Tears dripped from Merlin's chin. He found Will's hand and held it tight.

"Merlin," Will panted. "Merlin!"

"I'm here," he said. Use_ it, and no one else has to die_. His magic rioted through his veins, and there was no outlet.

"You're a good man," his friend told him, "a _great_ man. One day, your prince is going to be a great king. _Make it happen_."

"I will," Merlin swore.

A pained smile flitted across Will's face. "It was boring without you," he said. Tension relaxed from his body. "It was good to see you again." All that was left was his grip on Merlin's hand.

"You, too," Merlin said. Stupid, inadequate.

Will's face twisted in a last spasm of pain, then was still. The connection that told Merlin he was mere inches from Will faded, faded… Merlin huddled over on the pain that remained in his own heart, til his forehead rested on Will's shoulder, and he shook with the effort of controlling his sobs. The two remaining connections seemed to hum, stronger, sustaining him.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. Merlin felt the prince's hand on his shoulder. "I know he was a close friend."

"It was my fault," he said. "Cenred put him in because he was my friend."

After a pause, Arthur said, "I know." Merlin straightened, swiping at his tears with his cuff, then looked up at him. Arthur returned his gaze grimly. "And that's _my_ fault. They know they have to go through you to get to me."

Merlin looked down at his friend, then pushed himself to his feet. "It will be," he said, "harder to accomplish than they expect."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur wished that there were more living creatures in the labyrinth – birds, crickets, frogs, anything that might signal _all's well_ by their soft cheerful cacophony, and _danger_! when they fell silent. But aside from the gently waving leaves and tiny yellow flowers, there were only men in the labyrinth.

He'd stepped back to give his sorcerer a moment's peace with the death of his friend. It was going to be impossible to let the body lie – in this arena, Will might go unfound for days… or longer. He wished he could perform this service for Merlin, but he simply wasn't sure the boy was up to the task of guarding them while he worked. "Merlin," he tried, "Do you want me to –"

"No," Merlin said. He didn't move, but – they had time, Arthur supposed.

A soft footfall, hardly more than a scuff against the packed earth from the next row over, hidden from view, had Arthur whirling to face the curve where that row would turn into theirs.

"It's my father," Merlin said in a dead voice, not even turning.

Arthur didn't lower his sword until Balinor stepped into view, a sword at his hip. The older man tensed instinctively, taking them in at a glance – Arthur ready for defense, Merlin standing immobile over Will's body. Balinor sent a quick glance around them for enemies, and limped past Arthur to his son's side, putting his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"I want to build a pyre for him," Merlin said suddenly. "He deserves a knight's funeral."

Balinor glanced back at Arthur, and he read his own hesitation in the man's face. It wasn't a good idea. It would take time, it would keep them in a place where at least one enemy – Cenred's shadow-warrior with the crossbow – knew where they were, and the smoke would alert every other champion to their location.

"Let me help," Balinor said gently, and Merlin nodded.

"I'll keep watch," Arthur offered. He stepped back and transferred his sword to his left hand, pulling the knife from his sleeve to hold in his right. Perhaps he should have carried a crossbow himself, but he had thought, in the close quarters of the labyrinth, a sword would be of more use. At least, if he saw the bowman, he could throw the knife in defense.

Balinor used his own sword to cut down two sections of the hedge wall, roughly three feet wide, tipping them flat onto the ground, then lifted one with magic to stack in upon the other, a square green pyre about chest high. Merlin gently removed Will's pack of provisions and the water bottle, then struggled to lift his friend in his arms. Arthur gave Balinor a silent order to take up the watch, and sheathed his weapons to help Merlin with Will.

The hedge gave a little at the young man's weight, but not much more than a bed mattress might. Merlin straightened Will's limbs, laying his hands on his chest. He touched his friend's forehead briefly, then backed several yards away, where Arthur and Balinor waited, but didn't – quite – join them. He lifted his hand, hesitated as if loathe to perform the duty, then spoke, "_Baerne_."

Fire leaped up through the hedge beneath the body, everywhere at once. The smoke, though it did rise thick from the greenery, actually helped to obscure them from that direction. Arthur turned to face away from the pyre, that between him and Balinor, they might keep watch in both directions, and the older man could have a time to mourn his son's childhood friend.

Merlin's father caught Arthur's eye for a moment. "I have said my goodbyes to Hunith," he commented in a low voice, that Merlin would not hear. "I wish you neither harm nor ill, Arthur, but I am here for our son – I would send him home to his mother, if I can. I have lived a good life, a long life… this is the least I can do for the woman who gave so much to me."

Arthur nodded. He had no quarrel with Balinor appointing himself Merlin's bodyguard.

Long moments passed, and Arthur grew more and more edgy. Every instinct told him they should be away, before they were ambushed. He glanced back, squinted through the smoke, just as Balinor pointed to the figure on the other side of the burning pyre, indistinct through the heat of the flames.

Merlin raised his hand and spoke softly, almost whimsically, "_Hors beride_."

The smoke gathered itself into the form of a great billowing horse which galloped through the air, away from them and toward the figure, who disappeared in the dirty cloud of ash. After a moment, smoke once again rose from the pyre, and the figure was gone.

"We need to go," Arthur said in an undertone to Balinor.

Merlin turned to them. "Shall we go after the archer?" he asked. His face and tone were calm, but so very unlike the Merlin that Arthur knew that his heart ached again.

"I think not," Balinor said. "It would be a fool's errand to try to chase someone through this maze. By my counsel, we should make our way to that tree. It would provide shelter, as well as an advantage of seeing what surrounds us."

"The others will think the same," Arthur observed.

"Then we go cautiously," Balinor said, with a small smile.

Merlin cocked his head, and the look in his eye was anything but cautious. He took the lead, and Arthur and Balinor by unspoken agreement, allowed him. As they walked, they unwrapped strips of dried meat to gnaw on as a midday meal, softened by mouthfuls of water from the bottles. Balinor carried Will's extra water, Arthur the rations.

"So," he said to Merlin's father. "Your – _friend_ – was the dragon?"

Merlin did not turn, as he checked around another corner, but the slightest sideways twitch of his head told Arthur that he was listening, and interested in his father's tale also.

"His name is Kilgarrah," Balinor said mildly.

"What's the story there?" Arthur said. "You're a dragonlord?"

Merlin did turn, then, for a single, intense look at his parent. He might as well have shouted, _Why didn't you tell me_?

"You don't choose to become a dragonlord," Balinor explained. "It's not something you can be taught." Arthur thought he was explaining to his son, more than to the prince questioning him, there was a _please-understand_ note to his voice. Knowing Merlin meant, Arthur had found, that he had insight into the older man's character as well. "It's a sacred gift. For thousands of years it's been handed down from father to son."

Merlin stopped short, though they were in the middle of an aisle. Arthur glanced instinctively behind them to make sure no one was on their trail.

Balinor said softly, "Uther asked me long ago, to use my power to bring the last dragon to Camelot. He said he wanted to make peace with it, but he did not. He lied to me. He betrayed me. He killed every one of my kind. I alone escaped – Ealdor is beyond Uther's realm. I thought I was beyond his reach, and – years passed. Twenty years passed. I thought he must have forgotten me. I don't know if he had someone watching me in Ealdor, but I should have guessed that there would be more than one guard on the dragon's cavern. I went to speak with him, and I wasn't careful." There it was in his voice again, saying so clearly, _I'm sorry, son_.

Merlin turned his head to say over his shoulder, "Is that why he hates me, then?" Balinor said nothing. Arthur wondered if Uther had known Merlin's parentage before the banquet, and if so, for how long. Or if throwing Balinor into the arena had simply been an interesting way of having him killed.

"Did your dragon – ah, Kilgarrah – give you any good advice?" Arthur asked.

"Perhaps," Balinor said. "What do you know of the others?"

Merlin began to move forward again, but at a slower pace, a less reckless pace. Arthur spoke for a moment, sharing what details he knew about Aredian, Catrina, and Morgause, the little he'd picked up about the others.

Balinor nodded. "Catrina is a mystery," he said. "She is no warrior. Greed, I believe, is her motivation, and her skills in magic are devious. Aredian also, prefers not the open fight. He has no magic, himself, but is well-educated in the ways of sorcery – if anyone knows how to circumvent a sorcerer, capture and execute, it's him."

Arthur watched Merlin lean around another corner, not reacting at all to his father's words, and felt a cold chill. Was Merlin not afraid, not worried? He thought he'd prefer his friend to _have_ those feelings, and control them, than to feel nothing.

"As for Cenred's champions," Balinor continued, "I agree with your observations. The niece, a sorceress and highly trained warrior also, is to be the champion. The blonde warrior is Alvarr, he trained with the druids for a season and has some skill with sorcery. The dark-skinned warrior, Myror, has no magic, but is a highly-skilled assassin. The last warrior I have spoken with, during our mutual – incarceration." Arthur saw Merlin flinch. Balinor might have seen it, too, but no one said anything. "He is a drinker and a fighter and has no loyalty for Cenred, who bought him from a slaver to provide entertainment. Forced to fight for his bread."

"He's good, then?" Arthur said.

"He survived," Balinor said neutrally. "I don't suppose he has any great wish to rule two kingdoms, but he seems to be one who – loves life."

Merlin, in the lead, stopped just short of an intersection, raised his hand as a signal to them to hold. Arthur fell back two steps to check the last corner they'd rounded. The central tree loomed on their right, maybe a hundred yards away. They'd been in the labyrinth two candle-marks, maybe. They'd have five or six more before dark.

Arthur waited several moments before moving up next to Merlin. "What is it?" he said, leaning out for a look. They faced another hub in the maze, where half a dozen aisles intersected.

"A funny feeling," Merlin said in a low voice.

Arthur studied the ground, then straightened and took a deliberate step out. There was nothing – no one. No movement. They could wait, or they could move. Arthur glanced back at Balinor, indicating that he would skirt the open area to the left, if the old man would go right. To Merlin Arthur hissed, "Keep your eyes open."

Moments after Arthur shifted to the right, his gaze snapped forward, caught by sudden movement, dark within the green of the labyrinth walls – Morgause, Cenred's niece, strode to meet him like she expected him, her blade unsheathed. He raised his sword, moving to block her – Merlin had no blade, not that he needed one, and Arthur had no idea as to Balinor's level of experience with his weapon.

The sorceress spoke a quiet phrase and he tensed – nothing happened, except that Merlin tripped, and Balinor grunted. Arthur said, "Merlin!" but kept his eyes on the female warrior. Balinor would protect himself and Merlin from whatever threat came from that side.

Morgause drew her sword up in a duel-ready stance, an eager smirk on her face. He faced her, assuming a similar position. He'd never fought a woman before, and a nervous apprehension curled in his stomach. She struck first, flowing through a series of attacks, mostly aimed at his head, neck, and shoulders, getting his measure. They both used a two-handed grip, since neither had brought shields to this arena, but he had no problem parrying every blow, and she withdrew, circling.

Then the sorceress whirled through a backhanded blow, and he instinctively countered with a slash across her middle – a slash which he pulled short even as she jumped back. _She_! He was appalled at his hesitation, recognizing his disinclination to kill a woman as a weakness. Surely she knew it as well – he went on the offensive, duplicating her attack, raining blows around her head and shoulders. She countered, blocked, but she was weaker than he, and he beat her down – and her sword dropped from her hand.

He stepped back before thinking, and was again shocked with himself. _She'll kill you,_ he reminded himself. _Doesn't matter that she's a woman – this is no sparring match!_ She snatched up her blade as he lunged forward to prevent it, and a long cut opened down her right arm. She hissed at him, angered, and attacked again, using more varied blows – low, high, right, left – he threw her off, slashed again at her middle, this time driving hard. She leaped back, and he followed, shoving her into the hedge at her back. He raised his sword for an overhead blow, the killing blow, but she ducked, and his blade was stuck for an instant in the greenery of the wall.

She slipped out from under his arm, and he felt a sharp blow on the back of his left knee, the knee that held the majority of his weight. His leg buckled, and he twisted as he fell to his back on the packed earth of the path.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Keep your eyes open."

Merlin bit back a retort, knowing it would be bitter and caustic, right now, and the last thing Arthur needed was to worry about Merlin's state of mind. The golden-haired warrior stalked to the left, sword at the ready, and Merlin paced to the middle of the hub, trying to look everywhere at once. His father glanced down the row immediately to the right, stepped forward to the next.

Straight in front, the central aisle ran less than ten yards before it made a turn. Merlin tensed as a figure strode around that corner, sword drawn, long blonde hair rippling over the chainmail. Merlin threw up his hand, shouting, "Arthur!" and the prince took one long step to put himself between Merlin and Morgause, lifting his weapon.

She put out her free hand and spoke, and Merlin recognized the selfsame killing spell Nimueh had tried a year ago. Merlin leaned into the shield he tossed up in front of Arthur – except she hadn't spoken to curse the prince.

Merlin stumbled, desperately trying to spread the shield, pull it, stretch it, and heard his father grunt as the spell hit him also. Merlin's chin collided with the clay. In the blurry distance he heard Arthur say his name. Sunlight glittered from the prince's sword as he spun it, moving to engage the sorceress.

She was trained in sorcery but dressed as a warrior. He should have realized that Morgause would want to cripple him and best Arthur with the sword. Of course she'd want to pit her skills against the growing reputation of Camelot's new prince.

He blinked at the fog covering his eyes. His magic spun and shifted inside him, begging to be used, to defend and to save. He held his breath, and the magic rushed to his head – it felt his skull was splitting right down his forehead – his eyes cleared.

He only needed to see, to fight.

The insistent drone of a colony of bees in his ears was punctuated by the clang-clang-rasp of swordplay. He focused on Arthur and Morgause – who seemed to be fighting entirely without magic. He turned his head to find Balinor without losing Arthur - _a killing curse reflected, yes? Resulting in equal parts paralysis and slumber spell _– and a shadow fluttered toward them from a side avenue.

The black-skinned warrior flowed toward them, raising his crossbow. He fired at Balinor – Merlin caught the bolt dead in midair as Balinor gasped and flinched.

Myror's attention flicked to Merlin, and he raised one eyebrow and nodded, a bizarrely civilized tribute to a worthy enemy. He fitted another bolt into the bow, pointed aimed fired as swift as thought.

"Merlin!" Balinor rasped, twitched toward him.

The bolt froze before him.

Myror frowned at him, took two steps closer. "It does not have to be difficult, or slow," he said aloud.

_Merlin! see to Arthur_! Balinor ordered. _I will handle this_!

His hands and feet were nerveless, his arms and legs sluggish. He pushed himself up to his knees as Arthur pressed Morgause sharply into the hedge-wall, raised his sword for a killing-blow – she twisted away, fast as a snake, and kicked the back of his knee.

Arthur dropped, and Morgause struck.

Merlin flung out his hand, freezing her weapon in place. Arthur flinched in pain, but grabbed the blade in his gloved hands as she thrust her weight on her weapon and snarled. Blood ran down her arm.

He heard his father scuffling with the assassin, but the connection he felt to Balinor shone within him, so he didn't worry – and he didn't look.

At the junction beside the one where Arthur and Morgause struggled, a twig snapped – _a twig snapped_! – and all three of them jerked around to see the cynical dark-haired warrior standing, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over the other as he affected to lean on the leafy green wall, watching them as if they were there for his entertainment.

Morgause growled, "What are you waiting for! Kill him!" nodding toward Arthur at her feet.

Merlin immediately flung up an invisible barrier to prevent the dark-haired warrior from leaving his row, but he didn't so much as shift his weight.

"_Cume_ –" Merlin whispered – even his tongue was slow! – "_Cume theoden_!" It was nothing more than a burst of breeze and dust, but it was unexpected, and Morgause stumbled back, far enough that Merlin slammed another protective wall into place. She slapped it angrily, unable to reach Arthur, who climbed slowly to his feet, his sword and hers now both in hand. She placed her palms against the hardened air, and her eyes glowed golden. Merlin put one hand down on the earth and _pushed_ against her efforts until she released her force.

The sorceress glared at each of them in turn, then spun and sprinted down the corridor, around the corner, out of sight. Merlin sighed, pulled his feet under him, and straightened.

And his connection to Balinor _fractured_.

He turned so fast he lost his balance, and his father, who was near enough to touch, tipped backward into him. They were falling – blood on Balinor's sword in Myror's hand, a foot of the steel reddened and dripping – he clutched his father and screamed his fury at the assassin.

Myror was dead before his feet left the ground, his spine shattered in more than one place. His body fluttered backward and bounced off the hedge at the end of the row.

Balinor and Merlin crumpled to the ground, Merlin immediately sealing off the center of the hub to shield them both indefinitely. He eased his father down, kneeling beside him as pins-and-needles pain filled his body – arms, legs, _soul_. He put his hand over the blood-soaked hole in Balinor's shirt and began to speak the healing spell.

"No!" Balinor coughed, catching at his hand and interrupting the spell.

"I can save you!" Merlin protested urgently, trying to free his hands from his father's grip.

"Merlin, listen to me!" His father coughed again, and blood flecked his lips. "We cannot all survive victorious. I knew I would die today…"

"Please," Merlin pleaded, tears blurring his eyes. "I can't do this alone." _Ye gods_, he was not ready for this. Not prepared. Always he had Balinor's warm presence behind him, to comfort, to guide, to instruct. "Let me –"

"No, you mustn't use your magic for this," Balinor said, and Merlin knew it would be impossible to heal his father against his will – healing magic needed the cooperation of the patient, especially for a serious or fatal injury, he had learned this from Gaius. His father coughed again, laid his head down on the packed earth. "Use it to save yourself, save your prince."

"Father, please," Merlin sobbed, unashamed of his tears. "Don't –"

"Promise me," Balinor whispered. "You will remember what I taught you, you will tame your magic to the precepts you learned – for _healing_, for _protection_, for _good_."

"I promise – but, please, I am strong enough –"

"I have seen so much in you that makes me proud," his father sighed, raising a blood-covered hand to Merlin's shoulder. "I know you will continue to make me proud." He smiled at Merlin, and the light and life left his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. _Father_…"

_Healing, protection, good. Make me proud_. How could he dishonor his father by doing any less?

_Ye gods_, it was too much. He hunched over, sobbing. He threw his head back, screaming. His every instinct wanted to lash out, unleash his rage.

_Calm down, now. Easy. Merlin_. Sympathy and comfort and love throbbed through the link with Arthur, golden and strong.

_We'll figure it out._ He trusted, and wept.

**A/N: Some dialogue and spells from ep.1.10 "The Moment of Truth", 2.7 "The Witchfinder" and 2.13 "The Last Dragonlord."**

**Also, for those disappointed in my choice of character deaths, please note, I gave Will parts of two chapters in the story… and if you're upset about Balinor, go back and watch the episode – twenty years in Ealdor with Hunith and Merlin I gave him, instead of a cave, time to raise his son into a man and teach him magic… come on, now, I'm a **_**nice**_** author… right? :D**

**And a next-day update!**


	15. Gwaine

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 5: Gwaine**

The sun was shining. The air was fresh. They'd given him rations and water enough for a week. A week of freedom before he died was good enough for him.

The twin stone columns flanking his entrance into the labyrinth chimed softly, invitingly, and he stepped forward eagerly, ignoring the sensation of walking through an invisible full-length spider-web, complete with morning dew.

"Stranger," said the knight behind him, the guard who'd led him to the entrane, who'd taken the chains off his wrists and had given him a sword – a better-than-decent weapon, actually, and he was grateful because really, they could have given him a piece of –

"I have nothing against you," the knight continued. One of the biggest men he'd ever met, knight or not, the guard's tunic and chainmail armor were both sleeveless, leaving his arms bare. His hair was short, his manner mild, polite. "But if you return, and Arthur does not…" the big knight shrugged. "You will not make it alive to your coronation."

He felt his eyebrows lift, and he chuckled. "You know, Cenred said as much to me about his niece, friend." He turned and headed into the maze.

In spite of Cenred's orders, he had not plans beyond living as long as he could. Perhaps seeing some of the action. Perhaps participating. He grinned to himself, and fumbled in the knapsack they'd given him. Would it be too much to hope for – ah! His fingers found the firm, round shape, and he drew out the apple.

Now his day was perfect.

He sauntered along – no hurry, really, when you were enjoying your last week on earth – choosing new avenues at random, wandering, though alertly. He wasn't going to starve to death, but he figured he'd hold out against picking the fight that would kill him as long as he could.

As he walked he took note of the high hills forming the valley of the labyrinth, and the top of an enormous tree positioned roughly in the center, as near as he could figure it.

And, having nothing else to do but eat, breathe, and walk, he decided to spend his time and amuse himself seeing how long it might take to find his way to the tree. After all, that's where everyone else would go, wouldn't they? And when his provisions ran out, he didn't want to have to wander half a day, hungry and thirsty, to find someone to put him out of that misery.

In the first two hours, he saw only one other champion, the female entry from Camelot. She wore a simple white dress and was quite attractive, for a woman maybe fifteen years his senior. He stepped back behind one of the hedges as she paused and looked his way, and when he dared to lean back out, she was gone. He didn't fancy fighting a woman in any case, but at least Cenred's niece would fight you fair and kill you with steel. The woman from Camelot carried no weapons – she would use sorcery.

He shivered at the thought, and prowled more warily, trying to skirt the area where he'd seen the woman in white.

He'd been walking about two candle-marks when he saw the smoke, rising low over the hedge-wall on his left, too far in the distance to accurately judge.

Interesting. A fight, maybe? An ambush? At the next intersection, he chose to head toward the smoke.

He wandered for the better part of an hour, and couldn't tell if he'd actually gotten any closer to the source of the smoke. Judging from the small and steady amount of it, and because of the green state of the hedge-walls, it would be no wildfire raging out of control, he expected.

He fingered the hilt of the sword at his hip, pondering the idea of cutting a way _through_ the hedge. It would be tiring, no doubt, and eventually would dull his blade, and – he doubted that keeper fellow would appreciate his labyrinth being hacked apart. Anhora did not seem the type of person you'd want unhappy with you for chopping down his hedges.

He paused and cocked his head, listening. Voices, he heard. Two short calls, though the words were indistinct. And then the unmistakable steely clash of a duel. He turned and backtracked, chose a new route, half his attention on the sounds of the fight. Two swordsmen, fairly evenly matched, he guessed, and glimpsed several scuffling figures down another aisle. Hand on his hilt, he crept forward.

Dying the first day – hell, he'd be disappointed in himself if it came to that. But neither did it appeal to him to spend his last days running away from his arena-mates.

Before he'd gotten halfway down the row he'd chosen, he could tell that it ended in a more open area, an intersection of half a dozen rows rather than just one or two or three.

There were two bodies lying on the packed earth, but they were both moving – not dead yet, then, though they were both in some pain, that much was obvious. Another champion approached them from the maze opposite his own position; he tensed until he recognized the assassin Myror, another of Cenred's men. They'd been instructed not to kill each other until the prince of Camelot and his sorcerer were dead…

Arthur's sorcerer. The skinny boy in blue – he was one of the men down on the ground, and the other, he now recognized, was his fellow prisoner, the dragonlord. Myror aimed his crossbow – he winced, but the bolt stopped before it ever reach the man.

He gave a soft, incredulous chuckle to himself, and inched forward as the second bolt was halted. To his immediate left, Prince Arthur and Cenred's niece Morgause circled each other, each looking for an opening to exploit.

_Cenred, are you watching this in one of your scrying-pools?_ he wondered. _For once I am the amused spectator, and I am entertained by your niece, the prince of Camelot, his sorcerer, a dragonlord, and your assassin._

Oh, life was sweet. He could die happy, right now. _Are you watching, Cenred? Watching me, watching this?_

The skinny sorcerer struggled to his knees. _He_ saw no blood, but in a battle sorcerers joined, anything was possible. The boy reached out toward Cenred's niece and the prince, now on his back with Morgause's sword just touching his shoulder. The prince flinched, but it seemed to him that somehow the blade was _stuck_. However hard Morgause tried, she couldn't force it down into her opponent's flesh.

Fascinated, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched her frustrated struggle. After a few seconds, he made a choice that he would have been hard pressed to explain. It was clear they were at an impasse. Morgause could not move the frozen weapon, the prince was at least partially pinned, and the boy-sorcerer was too weak to do more than hold them apart.

He decided to intervene.

A twig from the hedge beside him was poking into his left shoulder, and he leaned on it deliberately to make it snap.

Both fighters startled, glancing at him, and Cenred's blonde, beautiful niece growled, "What are you waiting for! Kill him!" He smirked at her, but made no move. He cared little for the big knight's threat, but he cared even less for Cenred's plans.

Every choice belonged to him this week, for the first time in a long time, and he aimed to make the best of them.

Then a sudden breeze kicked up and Morgause staggered back, out of his sight. He watched Prince Arthur roll and come to his feet, both weapons in hand – but the fight did not resume. Morgause snarled in aggravated fury, and then the prince relaxed, as though she had retreated.

He turned to make sure she did not choose to come down his row, but didn't see her.

And behind him, sudden enough to make him jump and whirl, a warrior's roar of pain and wrath.

His line of vision was poor. He saw the sorcerer's back, the dragonlord's head over his shoulder – but when they collapsed, there was no enemy visible. Myror, the assassin – where had he gone? In the middle of the hub, the boy scuffled over the body of the dragonlord – there was blood on his hands. Both of them spoke, tension and desperation in every line of the boy's body, but he could hear nothing but the prince's voice in the row beside him.

"Merlin!" the prince said urgently, sparing him a single wary glance before turning his attention back to the boy. The prince raised his fist to make some odd gesture at the air, and his chainmail flattened and clinked in a curious way.

He shifted to get a better look, and bashed his nose against something in the air. His eyes teared, and he put up a hand instinctively – his knuckles grazing an invisible barrier. _What the hell?_

Beside him the prince argued, commanded, "Merlin! Lower the wall! Let me – _Merlin_!"

He passed his hand against the hardened air, searching for its edges – and not finding them. It seemed to extend up from the ground, as high as he could reach, and well into the hedge on each side.

"He's got you trapped as well?' he said in amusement to the prince, who glared at him and punched the air-wall half-heartedly, then leaned against it, an exquisite pain on his face.

He looked back at the pair huddled on the ground. The dragonlord, he guessed, had passed, and the boy was crumpled motionless at his side.

He remembered the lifeless look of the boy's blue eyes as they'd waited in line to sign the contract-oath. "Was that really his father?" he asked aloud.

The prince looked at him and nodded wearily.

"Uther's a bigger bastard than Cenred is, isn't he?" he remarked, and the prince snorted, his gaze sharpening as he studied him.

He turned away and strode to the end of his row, glanced around for Cenred's niece, then took the right-hand turn, hurrying around the end of the hedge, and coming up, as he hoped, right behind the prince – who spun defensively, his left hand open as if to stop an attack.

"Truce," he said to Arthur. "At least for now."

"It doesn't matter," the prince answered, turning back toward the hub. He tapped at the air behind him. "He's got one here, too."

He brushed his hand over the second wall experimentally, finding it as large as the other. He leaned on it – there was no give at all. The prince had begun to pace, though he couldn't manage more than two steps in either direction.

"He's more powerful than he looks, isn't he?" he asked the prince idly, leaning on the air-wall.

"Merlin? Yes."

"Last night at the banquet, I was ready to dive under the table," he went on. "Thought he might bring the roof down on all of us." Everyone had heard the boy say, _Father_, in that clear, dreadful voice, but no one he'd spoken to had known truth from conjecture. The prince didn't answer, watching his sorcerer. "You weren't scared of him at all, were you?" he asked curiously. "You got right between him and your king."

"Scared of him?" The prince gave him a brief bewildered frown. "No – he'd never hurt me. He's my best friend."

Best friend. Something stirred in him, warm and forgotten. How long had it been since he'd had even one friend?

"Merlin's his name? And you're Prince Arthur?" he said. "I heard the stories, last year." They'd filtered through Cenred's court, whispers gathered here and there, until even the dungeon guards were discussing it. Uther's new heir, the champion of the arena. And a miraculous, mysterious second survivor.

It was a female, some said, a sorceress who'd married the champion to rule by his side. No, a sorcerer, others argued, who'd enchanted king and court as well as heir to rule as a shadowy puppet-master. No, it was a child, a weak young boy who had begged to be made a slave rather than killed.

"Yes, I'm Arthur." The prince stopped to study him. "You're Cenred's prisoner? The warrior-slave?"

He grinned and stretched his arms. "I've been reprieved," he quipped. "For a week, anyway. Gwaine, m'lord, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Just Arthur," the prince said absently. "So – you have orders to kill me, and protect Morgause?"

He snorted. "I'm through fighting on command."

"Balinor – Merlin's father, the dragonlord," Arthur gestured to the still form on the packed earth. "He said you probably didn't have any wish to rule two kingdoms, but you're one who loves life."

"He seemed like a good man," Gwaine said. He'd never known his father, but the dragonlord had seemed like he'd be a good one to have.

Even through the invisible wall, he could hear Arthur sigh. "He was. But Merlin – your fellow warrior Will, the one in the yellow tunic?"

He remembered. "Country boy," he said. "Fair with a sword. Probably could defend himself for a few minutes. What about him?"

Arthur gestured. "Merlin's best friend when they were boys. They grew up in a village on the border." Ah – that explained a lot. He couldn't figure why Cenred had sent the young man, who'd seemed so reluctant on the assignment. "Killed about an hour ago by your crossbowman, the assassin Myror."

_Ah, hells_. "That's rotten luck," Gwaine said.

Arthur gave him a measuring look. "It wasn't luck," he said coolly. "It was deliberate."

Gwaine understood. "To bring him to this," he said, pointing.

Arthur nodded, put his hand to the outer wall. "Merlin," he called softly, but the sorcerer gave no sign he'd heard. "Calm down, now. Easy, Merlin. We'll figure it out."

Gwaine glanced over his shoulder. It was making him nervous to stay so long in one place. He jumped, felt the upper edge of the invisible wall. "If you can reach my hand," he offered, "I'll help you over, and then –"

Arthur gave him an incredulous look. "And then what?" he said. "I'm not leaving him. If he has this row blocked, he has every row blocked. We won't be able to circle around and –"

"How long are you going to stay trapped?" Gwaine asked. "They wanted to get to him – _they got to him_."

"He's my friend," Arthur insisted stubbornly.

"And only one person is going to live past this week," Gwaine said.

"Doesn't mean I'm going to leave him." The prince's jaw set determinedly. "We'll figure something out."

It was, Gwaine thought, a particular brand of idiocy, to hang on to loyalty of friendship in a time and place like this. A particular brand of idiocy a lot like _nobility_.

And, though there was no wall trapping him into the row with Arthur, he stayed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Merlin," Arthur tried one more time. There was no response. He and the warrior behind the wall of air, Gwaine, had watched the young sorcerer weep. They'd watched him scream. Now they were watching him sit motionless, his back to them.

Arthur certainly didn't relish the thought of building another pyre, but _something_ had to be done. _Merlin_.

His friend shifted, turning toward them, looking over his shoulder. Arthur put his gloved hand out and said, "Take down the walls." Merlin studied him a moment as if he was finding it difficult to process the meaning of words, then jerked his chin at Gwaine in question and reminder.

Arthur turned to the dark-haired warrior. "I don't know you and you don't know me," he said quietly. "We may end up killing one another, but I give you my word that I will give you fair warning. I will not strike at your back, or unawares." His own sword sheathed, he stabbed Morgause's blade into the ground, and put out his hand. Gwaine, older by a couple of years, cynical and hardened, looked surprised. Arthur raised his voice, "Lower the wall, please, Merlin."

Gwaine glanced over Arthur's shoulder at Merlin, then tentatively reached through the space where the wall had been. He took Arthur's hand.

"And if you harm Merlin in any way," Arthur added, "I will leave pieces of you all over this maze."

Gwaine huffed, in amusement, but also, Arthur saw, in _agreement_. "All right," he said. "Introduce me to your sorcerer."

Arthur turned, stepping out of the row into the hub. Merlin watched them – he looked exhausted, unnaturally still and quiet. Arthur's attention was caught by a small object, white against the blue of the sky, soaring up into the sun – he blinked, and the object was descending. Not a bird – a stone? Did someone have a slingshot?

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted in warning, pointing.

Merlin turned in time to freeze the object in midair for a single instant, a pouch with a tied-off mouth, of a size to fit comfortably in a man's hand. One instant only, then it burst, spattering clear liquid all over Merlin, and Balinor's body.

Gwaine caught at Arthur's arm, whether in caution or dread, he didn't know. Merlin himself sat still in shock. Then coughed, and gasped, and clawed at his face.

"Merlin!" Arthur called.

Gwaine held him back. "You don't know what that stuff is, what it does," he hissed. "Be careful!" He drew his sword and dashed to the row nearest the direction the pouch had come flying from, checked around the corner, then disappeared.

Arthur skirted father and son, to face his friend. Merlin scrubbed at the liquid wetting hair and hands and face, sputtering. Arthur saw no acid burns, smelled no odor at all. "You all right?" he asked, crouching down.

Merlin coughed, leaned to the side and spat, then blinked up at Arthur, hair and eyelashes spiky with the clinging liquid. His eyelids were pink from his rubbing. He blinked and rubbed again. "Yeah, I'm okay," he responded quietly, his voice raspy and confused. He widened his eyes as if that would help him focus, looked down at his father lying in front of him. He shook his head, then knuckled his eyes again.

"Arthur!" Gwaine hailed him. Arthur straightened, moved away to meet the dark-haired warrior. "I caught a glimpse of him, that older man your king put in. He ran from me, though, and I lost him."

"Aredian," Arthur said. "He's the judge of the sorcerer's court. He has no magic himself, but is very experienced in dealing with sorcery. He won't fight openly; he has no sword."

Gwaine gestured over to Merlin, struggling to his feet. "Is he okay? What was that stuff?"

Arthur shook his head, indicating his ignorance. Merlin swayed drunkenly, nuzzling his head into his forearm. He looked down at his father's body, then leaped back in such shock that he stumbled and fell.

"Merlin!" Arthur said, starting toward him.

Merlin gazed around wildly. "Arthur? Arthur!" he shouted, startling at absolutely nothing, flinching back from empty air. He scrambled to his knees, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "_Arthur_!"

The young sorcerer raised both hands, palms out – and fireballs began to fly.

Faster than Arthur could see, the flaming projectiles formed and flashed, and no point around Merlin was safe. He turned his head, and flames shot, burning blackened smoking holes in the hedges all around. He was shouting, howling as though every enemy suddenly surrounded him.

"Come on, we gotta go before he blasts us!" Gwaine shouted, using Arthur's body to shield his own, but pulling him backward toward a leafy alley getaway. "He's gone mad! No telling what he's seeing!"

What he's seeing. That liquid. Arthur wrenched free from Gwaine's grip and advanced upon his friend, calling his name.

Merlin whirled around, his eyes wide but unfocused, holding one palm toward Arthur as if signaling him – warning him – to stop. "Arthur? Where are you?" he shouted, and his tone suddenly changed to one of venomous threat – "_You_, stop right where you are!"

"Merlin, it's me," Arthur said. He held out his hands as if his posture could calm and reassure the sorcerer. "It _is_ me."

"Arthur?" Merlin glanced around, shivered, then suddenly ducked and rolled, roaring some words in the old language, and the hub was filled with swirling wind dashed with licking tongues of flame.

Gwaine was probably long gone. "Merlin," he tried again. "Please stop – there's no one here but us!"

Merlin snarled and reached behind him to shoot another fireball – his eyes glared golden at Arthur. "Don't come any closer!" he warned with a hitch of terror in his voice.

"Merlin, can you hear me? Do you trust me?" Arthur commanded, "_Close your eyes_."

Merlin obeyed. The labyrinth went still around them. No wind, no flame. No sound. The sorcerer, still on his knees, shoulders hunched, shivered and panted. His outstretched hands twitched as though anxious to keep fighting.

"You hear me, don't you?" Arthur said, sliding his feet slowly forward. "You know it's me. You trust me. I'm right here."

"Arthur, be careful," Merlin said desperately. "All around us-"

"There's nothing," Arthur soothed. "There's no one."

"There's –" His head jerked to the side, but he kept his eyes obediently shut. "But I saw…"

Arthur knelt before his friend. "Keep your eyes shut," he said, and glanced around them to be sure they weren't about to be ambushed. "There must have been something in that pouch to make you see things."

Merlin sank back on his haunches, his arms dropping to his sides. "There's really nothing there?" he whispered. "No one?"

"Just us," Arthur said, striving for cheer in his tone. He rummaged in his pack for his roll of bandages, shook it out, wadded it up, then poured water over it and began to scrub at Merlin's face.

"I caught it in the air," Merlin said. "But the minute my magic touched it…it burst apart."

Leave it to someone like Aredian to think of that. Arthur tipped Merlin's chin up and squeezed water into the hollows of his eyes. "I'm not sure this is going to help," he said.

Merlin coughed again. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Open your eyes," Arthur ordered. "Slowly, carefully, and tell me what you see."

Merlin looked at him, the blue of his irises faded slightly, red-rimmed, his pupils unnaturally dilated. He recoiled from Arthur, then jerked to the left, falling over with the violence of the movement. The look on his face – whatever he saw, it was _terrifying_. Arthur tackled him, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Okay, never mind," he said. "I'm going to wrap this bandage around your eyes, you can just keep them shut."

Merlin nodded, swallowed dryly. "Arthur." His whisper was hoarse. "If I can't see, I can't fight. I'm going to be useless to you, slow you down…"

"Then it's lucky we're not in a hurry to get anywhere, isn't it?" Arthur said, winding the bandage and tying it, unintentionally tangling Merlin's black hair in the knot. Movement distracted him, and he looked up to see Gwaine at the entrance to one of the aisles.

As the other warrior's boot-heel scuffed faintly, and Merlin's head began to turn, Gwaine said cheerfully, "That was quite mad, wasn't –" Merlin's hand rose as fast as thought, and Arthur lunged to knock it aside. Gwaine was flung back against the hedge-wall.  
"That's Gwaine," Arthur said to Merlin. "He's not an enemy. Not at the moment."

"Yeah, not _ever,_ with you, mate," Gwaine quipped, pushing himself upright, collecting his cynical amusement back from shock. He widened his eyes at Arthur, since Merlin couldn't see his expression.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said in Gwaine's direction, his voice raspy.

"Here, drink something," Arthur said, putting a water-skin into Merlin's hands, guiding his fingers to the spout.

Gwaine squatted beside them. "The assassin is dead," he reported, and Arthur noticed the extra pack and water-skin, as well as the crossbow slung over Gwaine's back.

Now they had Will's provisions, and the assassin's, and – Balinor's. That lengthened the time they could survive in the labyrinth, but Morgause might return, or Aredian. And all the holes in the hedges made the area more vulnerable. "Let's put a few twists and turns between ourselves and this place," he proposed, standing and reaching to pull Merlin up by his elbow.

"My father," Merlin said, in the same quiet, rough voice, turning to where his father lay, though he could no longer see him. He cleared his throat, coughed, and spat.

"We won't go far," Arthur promised. "I'll return, and ready the pyre." He glanced at Gwaine, to gauge the other's intent, wondering if he could trust him to stay with Merlin. Wondering if he should tell him to take a hike – and keep going.

"Well," Gwaine said, offering a wide grin. "Seems like you two have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven't you?"

"You should get out of here while you have the chance," Arthur told him. "Merlin and I, we have a tendency to attract this kind of trouble." Merlin made a sound equal parts laugh and sob.

"You're probably right," Gwaine agreed cheerfully. "Your chances look between slim and none – but I guess I kind of like the look of those odds." Arthur gave him a skeptical look, and the warrior's expression intensified. He said, "I am through dancing to Cenred's tune. His gal Morgause would be a plague and a half on our kingdoms. Are you going to be a good king? I dunno. Are you going to be alive in a week, a day, an hour? I dunno. Am I?" He shrugged. "Same answer. But there's – something – I see in the two of you."

"You know what that is?" Merlin rasped, perfectly serious.

"What?" Gwaine said.

Merlin put out his hand, patted at the air until he felt Gwaine's sleeve, then gripped his arm. He grinned, though the smile without the light in his eyes was considerably dimmed, it was a smile.

"We're idiots," Merlin told Gwaine.

**Some dialogue taken from ep. 3.4 "Gwaine".**

**PS. Please don't ask me to save Gwaine. I mean, I already have a plan in place for each character, for the climax, etc. and asking won't change my outline… if you want to know, read on… And as far as reviews go, I enjoy them as much as the next, but please remember, writers are sensitive people, after all… *nudge, nudge, wink, wink*… know what I mean? **


	16. The Witchfinder

**A/N: See, I **_**knew**_** after the chapter on Gwaine, you all would forgive me for Will and Balinor! And this one is quite a long chapter, but no one minds that, do they?**

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 6: The Witchfinder**

This particular brand of idiocy the prince and the sorcerer shared – it was _catching_.

Gwaine brought up the rear as the three of them traveled, not far but far enough for a momentary safety. He watched the blindfolded sorcerer, one hand on Arthur's shoulder for guidance, stumble trustingly behind the prince, pausing when Arthur checked corners or new avenues, moving forward as Arthur did. Moving as _one_.

If it had been him, Gwaine wondered, to catch a faceful of that poison, whatever it had been, who would be there to lead him? Who would he trust so implicitly, with such childlike purity? No one. Who was there in his life that he cared about so wholly that he would risk _everything_ to make sure they reached a place of shelter and safety? No one.

But oh, he wished it was different, for him.

He'd urged the prince to abandon the boy-sorcerer and run. It would have been the smart thing to do. Merlin himself probably wouldn't have blamed either of them. But, if he was being honest with himself – and you pretty much had to be honest with yourself, didn't you? – he would admit that he would have respected Prince Arthur quite a bit less had he abandoned his crippled sorcerer.

He'd never seen anything quite like the other warrior, creeping cautiously out into that _storm_ of magic to try to rescue the terrified and confused sorcerer who caused it. The initial thought, that Arthur wanted – _needed_ – the sorcerer's power, that the prince had been unwilling to let the best weapon lie, so to speak, had been quickly obliterated. It was almost as if the strength of the magic didn't matter to Arthur.

They paused again at another intersection, the prince's head turning this way and that, listening. He hadn't so much as glanced over his shoulder to see if Gwaine was still following, to make sure he hadn't pulled a knife to use on the boy between them.

His heart jolted in his chest. It was almost like – he was part of a team, in a way that Cenred had tried to force, and could not. Choices he had, this week, and he'd already chosen not to help Morgause. Neither the king nor his niece could wake an ounce of loyalty in Gwaine's heart, and instead inspired contempt and loathing.

Mere _moments_ with these two – idiots, as Merlin had joked, yes, maybe – had him longing to have just a taste of what they had. To have someone trust him like that, to be able to trust someone so instinctively… The moment of choice had not come, but seemed almost as if it had been made for him, or that he'd made it long ago, and just needed the right circumstances to recognize it. He knew, didn't he, if Arthur felt he'd lost his usefulness, if Arthur felt he threatened them in any way, he'd give that fair warning he'd promised, and then fight him dagger and sword til one of them was dead. That was honor. But it wasn't _trust_. Not like what Arthur and Merlin had. There would be no warnings, between those two, no call of _on guard_.

"Here," Arthur said, finding a short lane that dead-ended. He guided Merlin inside, pressed him down to rest. "Food, and water if you need it," he told his friend, placing the boy's hand on the pack and water-skin. "I won't be gone long."

"Take Gwaine with you," Merlin said. "He can watch your back."

"He can watch _your_ back," Arthur said, and stood, giving Gwaine a stern look. Gwaine merely nodded, and Arthur moved away without further hesitation, back the way they'd come.

Gwaine looked down at Merlin curiously, alone with a sorcerer for probably the first time in his life. The boy-sorcerer had slumped back against the hedge, one hand fisted over his chest, one pressing thumb and fingers together against his temples. He was breathing hard, though the walk had been slow and short.

Gwaine had a knife. Hell, he was cradling a crossbow ready to fire with one twitch of his thumb on the trigger. The boy would be dead in moments. He'd lost his childhood friend, his father, his eyesight, his health – he might even be dying slowly of poison, right now. He had to know his prince was risking himself for his safety. He might even agree to such a move, were Gwaine to be stupid enough to suggest it before implementing it.

It might even be doing Arthur a favor. The prince would have no one to worry about but himself. He'd hunt Gwaine down, sure, they'd cat-and-mouse around the labyrinth for _days_, maybe, fighting whoever they met, til one or both of them were killed, or one of them killed the other.

Gwaine looked down on Merlin, and couldn't contemplate ending his life. There was _something_, just as he'd said, something more than friendship or loyalty. There was something special, about Merlin, and about Arthur. About Merlin and Arthur. Something important.

There was far more to this boy that just the power of his magic.

He knelt down sideways to the boy, so he could keep his eye on the opening to the maze, keeping the crossbow ready across his knees. "Is it getting worse?" he asked.

Merlin struggled upright. His throaty, hoarse voice tried to be cheerful. "I'm all right," he said. Gwaine pulled the plug from the spout on the water-skin, put it into his hands. Merlin drank, gulp after gulp. "Please – please go after Arthur. It doesn't matter what happens to me, but please – he must live."

Gwaine chuckled. "You know he'd kill me if anything happened to you, right?"

Merlin laughed, coughed, and spat to the side. Gwaine was concerned to see that there was blood in the spittle, but didn't say anything. "I'll put up –" He dragged in a breath like a swimmer surfacing. "I'll put up a wall, a glamour, it'll look like this aisle is empty. No one will find me, no one will see."

"If that's so, how will we find you?" he said. "Every path looks like every other path, in here."

"I'll know when you're coming, when you're close," Merlin said.

Gwaine snorted. Most men, in Merlin's position, would be begging not to be left alone. But this boy was begging Gwaine to leave him and guard Arthur instead. "Why?" he said. "What makes him worth your time and effort?" _Your life_? "I've known plenty of nobles, and not one of them is worth…" Worth dying for? Worth losing your father for? Not one of Cenred's court – and none he'd seen in Uther's, either – deserved the sort of loyalty he saw in this boy.

_If you return, and Arthur does not, you will not make it alive to your coronation_, the big knight had said. Was that what it was about Arthur? That somehow the new prince _was_ the sort of sterling character that was deserving of loyalty? Any man's loyalty? _His_?

"Titles don't mean anything," Merlin rasped. "It's what's inside that counts. Arthur's fair, he's loyal… He's going to make a great king, I know it."

"Let's hope he lives that long," Gwaine said.

Merlin made an impatient gesture. "Go make sure of it."

Gwaine paused at the entrance to the blind alley to look back. As he said, Merlin had erected a look-alike hedge-wall. The dead-end row looked empty now, and shorter. He hurried back toward the hub, relying on speed more than stealth to keep him safe, if anyone else was about, and nearly ran into Arthur, who was lugging the body of the dragonlord away from the small battlefield.

For a single second, each warrior tensed and reached for his weapon, til recognition came. "What the hell are you doing, Gwaine?" Arthur demanded. "I told you to stay with Merlin."

Gwaine smirked at the royal attitude the prince had picked up in only a year. "_He_ told me to come look after _you_," he said. "_He_ can hide. _You_ don't have the talent of making yourself look seven feet tall and leafy green, do you, sire?"

Arthur growled, and sent a searching gaze around them. "Didn't want to try to build a pyre in that place," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Too open, too easy to ambush. But here – should be all right."

He reached for his sword, wincing, and Gwaine remembered the tip of Morgause's sword in the prince's shoulder. "You all right?" he asked, stepping close to probe at the chainmail, dampening his fingertips with blood.

Arthur nodded. "It's not much more than a scratch," he said.

"It's still bleeding," Gwaine observed. He twisted to reach into his own bag for his bandage-roll, and handed it to Arthur. "Stuff it in there – stop the bleeding, at least."

"Thanks." The prince shrugged a gap in the chainmail, tucked the bandage between the armor and the tunic beneath.

Gwaine unsheathed his own sword, hacking at the hedges to get enough brush for a decent pyre. _Sorry, Anhora_. He said, "Did you see the assassin's body?" Arthur grunted. "Your sorcerer broke his neck, you know." Broke, hell, he'd _crunched_ it.

"Good riddance," Arthur said briefly. "Let him lie." Gwaine agreed.

Between him and Arthur, they made the pyre and arranged the dragonlord's body, without any interruptions from other champions. The edge of the sun's yellow circle was just touching the top of the hill when they finished.

"You think we should bring him?" Gwaine asked. "He's not going to be able to see anything…"

"We have to," Arthur said. "I can't fire it, can you?" Gwaine conceded the point with a shrug, and Arthur started off again, toward the dead-end where they'd left Merlin. "If he's disguised as a wall, how are we supposed to –" Arthur stopped suddenly, swore, then rushed into the row.

Merlin was crumpled on his side. Gwaine swore to himself, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. If someone had found and killed the boy, Arthur would turn on him in fury –

Arthur's whole body expressed his sigh of relief. "Merlin," he called softly, shaking the boy's shoulder. "Wake up." The boy moved, raised his head, and the prince helped him to sit up properly. "Merlin, you idiot, you fainted like a girl," he chided affectionately.

"Sorry," Merlin mumbled huskily. "I just got so dizzy…" He raised his hand to the bandage covering his eyes.

"Shall we see what you can see?" Arthur said, untying the cloth. Merlin blinked, squinted up at Gwaine, and flinched.

"Come now," Gwaine teased, "I'm not that ugly – unless the ladies lie."

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. "Arthur, please swear to me that Gwaine is not vomiting purple toads." His voice was dry and strained.

Arthur sighed, reaching for the water-skin next to the sorcerer's knee. "Gwaine is not vomiting purple toads," he said.

The prince held up the water-skin for Gwaine to see that it was empty, raising his eyebrows. Gwaine shrugged. It was rather too much for Merlin to have consumed, especially considering how long they might have to stay in the labyrinth. Arthur took his own, dribbled more water over the bandage before replacing it over Merlin's eyes and tying it with infinite care and gentleness.

"Is that better?" he said. Merlin nodded. "Come on, then." He pulled the sorcerer to his feet and steadied him, placing the boy's hand on his shoulder for guidance, and with Gwaine in the rear once again, they walked – or weaved unsteadily, in Merlin's case – to the pyre. "Are you ready, then?" Arthur said softly.

Merlin nodded, reaching out. Arthur helped him to find the dragonlord's hand, and Merlin raised it to his forehead. After a moment, he said hoarsely, "I _can't_, Arthur."

Arthur was silent for quite a while before answering. "I understand, Merlin. I understand. When my father died, it felt like part of me was missing. I learned everything from him, I valued his pride, his smile… when he told me, _well done_."

Gwaine wondered if he should move away, give them a moment of privacy, but found he wanted to stay. He hadn't known his father, but… he wanted to hear what Arthur would tell Merlin.

"He gave so much of his life to me, making sure I knew enough and understood enough to be my own man. It's hard, Merlin. I know. But your father did the same for you. You are a _good_ man. He was proud of you. He would be proud of you still." The prince put his hand over the sorcerer's chest. "You have his heart, Merlin. You have his loyalty, his nobility, his honor and self-sacrifice. He is _here_, with you, and always will be. No one – not Uther, nor any assassin – can _ever_ take that from you."

Gwaine swallowed a lump in his own throat. He'd meant to offer condolences at some point, though it was awkward in the extreme, the situation they were in, but after Arthur's words… Gwaine chose to say nothing, but simply placed his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin was trembling, his breathing uneven, but his shoulders were squared and his head was high. He nodded, letting his hand slip from his father's to rest on the prickly hedge forming the pyre. "Step back," he told them, his voice hoarse but calm. Arthur and Gwaine retreated. Merlin spoke a spell, a single word, and fire ignited throughout the pyre, in spite of the moisture in the green and living foliage.

Then he backed up to them, and they stood for some time. Gwaine kept the lookout, and pretended not to notice that the bandages over Merlin's eyes were soaked through. He pretended not to notice when the prince wiped his face dry, also.

"Come," Arthur said finally. The sun's rays were orange on the few leaves that waved above the top of the hedge. "We need to cover some distance before dark."

"There'll be a moon tonight," Gwaine observed as they turned away. "Near-full."

Merlin stumbled over Arthur's heels. "I'll take first watch, shall I?" he said tiredly. Gwaine scoffed a little, but Arthur patted Merlin's hand on his shoulder as if he'd heard something Gwaine had not, in Merlin's words.

Before long it was Gwaine's turn to step on Merlin's heels, as the sorcerer lagged suddenly, coughing and clutching at his chest. Arthur stopped instantly in concern. "Merlin," he said.

The coughing triggered a spasm through the boy's muscles, and only the grip of the two warriors kept him on his feet, as he shuddered and wheezed. Then he croaked out, "I'm okay – we can keep going."

"Let's rest a minute," Arthur said, dropping to one knee. Gwaine let Merlin collapse, and at a look from the prince, he stepped back to take up a guard position. Arthur dug in his pouch for a biscuit and more dried meat, which Merlin took, only to nibble at. He did gulp more water, though. "You study with Gaius," the prince said to his sorcerer. "Do you have an idea of what that liquid was?"

"Belladonna, maybe." Merlin's voice was light, breathless. "There are any number of plants or tinctures that cause hallucinations, but the other side effects point to belladonna."

The prince looked up to share a grim look with Gwaine. Belladonna was a _poison_, wasn't it? Who was this Gaius, he wondered.

"What other side effects?" Arthur demanded.

"Nothing you have to worry about," Merlin assured him, taking another drink.

"Merlin," Arthur said, and Gwaine heard the note of worry through the light scolding tone, "What other side effects do _you_ have to worry about?"

Gwaine could fairly _hear_ the boy-sorcerer deciding whether or not to answer his prince honestly and fully. "Just – some dizziness," Merlin said finally. "Headache, mouth and throat dry…"

"What else?" Arthur said. "What about that fit you just had?"

"Arthur," Merlin rasped, managing to sound _amused_, of all things. "I can't exactly guess what the dosage was. Belladonna's not meant to be inhaled or ingested, either."

"_Merlin_," the prince commanded.

"Spasms," Merlin mumbled. "Heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, slurred speech."

Gwaine couldn't help it. "_Death_?" he blurted. Arthur glared up at him.

"No," Merlin said, but it sounded more like a promise than a fact.

"Can't you –" Gwaine fumbled for a polite way to say it, and couldn't find one, "_heal_ yourself? With magic?"

Merlin turned his head toward Gwaine, though of course he couldn't see anything past the bandage, and bumped his forehead gently with the heel of one hand. "Why didn't I think of that?" he joked hoarsely.

"You have been trying, then?" Arthur said. Merlin coughed, and nodded. "Keep trying," Arthur ordered sternly. Then he said, "Damn witchfinder."

"Witchfinder?" Gwaine said.

"We're good then," Merlin whispered. "I'm not a witch. Look – no dress."

Arthur shook his head, and Gwaine chuckled. He could see why Arthur liked the boy – he had an indomitable optimism of the sort that buoyed the spirits of those around him. He was _far_ more than the simple exercise of his power. And this upon the heels of his father's death… Gwaine ventured, "Did you want to stay the night here?"

"Let's keep going," Arthur decided, rising and reaching to pull Merlin to his feet also. "I want to find a better place."

They moved in silence, and as dusk fell, they used their ears more than their eyes. Arthur, Gwaine guessed, was trying to move them away from the hub and the pyre without increasing or decreasing the distance between them and the tree. They'd been maneuvering between the rows and hedges, up one and down another, parallel lanes and right-corner turns, for almost an hour, when Merlin tripped again, and this time went down on one knee.

"Ow," he said.

Gwaine reached for his elbow, but Merlin twitched violently away from his fingers, thudding to the packed-earth path with a grunt. Arthur turned from checking the corner ahead of them and hissed, "Merlin!" rushing to kneel next to the boy as his body convulsed.

Gwaine knelt, too. "Shall we hold him down?" he whispered to Arthur. The boy-sorcerer jerked and shuddered, boots scraping erratically on the dirt.

"No, don't touch him," Arthur said, and Gwaine heard the agony of uncertainty in the prince's voice. Gwaine sensed rather than saw Arthur study the layout of their current position, a Z-shaped row with a turn at each end but no intersecting avenues.

"It's as good a place as any," Gwaine advised. "Let's not make him go any further?"

"No," Arthur said.

The spasm gradually calmed to an occasional involuntary twitch. Merlin was on his side, curled up as small as his long limbs would allow.

"Merlin?" Arthur whispered. Moonlight glinted from his chainmail as he removed his glove and reached to touch the boy. "He's cold, Gwaine. Merlin?"

"Sssorry, Arth-rr," Merlin mumbled. Gwaine thought bleakly, _slurred speech –_ _dammit_, the boy was getting _worse_. " 'L be a'right 'n morn…"

"I'll take first watch," Arthur said to Gwaine. "Could you – he's _cold_, Gwaine."

He understood, and crawled into the space between Merlin's body and the base of the hedge, pillowing his head on his arm, scooting so his back provided the boy with shelter and warmth. "Call me for the second watch," he told Arthur.

The prince backed off a few feet, settled himself down. "Thank you, Gwaine," he said, and the warrior, the _slave_, was shaken by the sincerity of the words themselves, as much as the feeling behind them.

How long had it been since someone was grateful to him? He spared the lives of his opponents in Cenred's circus-matches routinely, but that provoked resentment and hatred, never gratitude. And his name? How long since any had used it at all when addressing him – _swine_ or _filth_ or _damn madman_ – _names_, surely, but not _his name_. The way these two had said it today, multiple times. It was like having friends.

Gwaine was used to the cold. The stone and filthy straw of a locked dungeon – and here at least the air was fresh.

Merlin cuddled against his back like a puppy craving warmth and companionship from a litter-mate, demanding it as a right and giving it just as freely in return like a responsibility taken for granted.

Like brothers, maybe, packed into a bed too small for growing bodies – kicking and pinching and laughing under their breath, and finally falling asleep tangled in each other's space. Or like fellow-soldiers, comrades, crammed into barracks or camped in rows on a campaign, back to back and thankful for it on a cold night. And he was a stranger, who just this morning was an enemy. In_cred_ible, this boy.

Gwaine found it had been easier to fall to sleep many nights in his lonely cold cell, than this one night with a prince close enough to touch, giving up sleep to guard _his_ safety, and a blinded, powerful boy-sorcerer with sharp shoulder-blades and bony elbows breathing in soft snorts and whuffles and twitching sometimes behind him. Not for the discomfort of the situation, no. For the very opposite reason.

Because it felt like he _belonged_ with these two. For the first time in – _ever_. It felt like home.

And it occurred to him that _this_ – whatever this was – might very well be worth dying for.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke to darkness and a heavy cold weight pinning down his left shoulder. He drew in a deep breath carefully, wary of starting another coughing spasm, then let it out in a sigh. The gleaming golden link to Arthur pulsed warmly; he knew it was Arthur's shoulder pinning his own down, and that was all right with him. It meant that Arthur was sleeping – and that meant they were safe.

He took another experimental breath. Yes, pretty clear. There was an urge to cough, but it was controllable. His magic, used several times during the course of the night, had healed, had sustained – and now, probably, the other effects of the poison would wear off, if they hadn't already.

He squirmed out from under Arthur, and sat up, reaching for the bandage still tied over his eyes.

"Whoa, slow down," someone said, and he flinched in surprise, until he recognized Gwaine's voice. That made sense, he supposed – if Arthur had gone to sleep, Gwaine would be on guard. "Take it easy, there. You sure you want to do that?"

Merlin curled his fingertips over the edge of the bandage, pulled it down over his nose. Then he opened his eyes - it was a blur of darkness. No, no, no – belladonna was _not_ supposed to cause _permanent_ blindness! He blinked, widened his eyes, scrubbed at them vigorously.

"What do you see?" Gwaine asked in a curious whisper.

"Nothing," he admitted hollowly, letting his hands fall into his lap.

Gwaine chuckled. "Not yet dawn, Merlin," he told him. "Give it an hour, then you'll be able to see – whatever it is you can see."

Whatever it is… he shuddered, remembering. He'd looked down at his father, seeing not peaceful stillness or a dark saturation of blood, but the filthy pale swollenness of a long-submerged corpse, opening milky-white eyes and blackened lips to scream and whisper in silence.

And then, more had come, all around. Dead, drowned faces, dripping like fountains, dragging their limbs toward him, glowing with a sickly blue-green luminescence, closing in… And one, more horrific than the rest, because of the link that told him – _that corpse was Arthur's_. The golden hair and blue eyes were bleached and pouring foul water, reaching webbed fingers – and he couldn't strike back. He shuddered again. _Ye gods_, if he had acted upon the hallucination…

"Pendragon," Gwaine hissed. Merlin heard a shuffle of motion, the soft clink of Arthur's armor. "Dawn approaches."

Arthur grunted, then groaned, and the sound was so familiar, Merlin couldn't help smiling. The few times the prince had still been sleeping when Merlin had entered the bedchamber with his breakfast tray, he always woke in the same way. "Merlin," Arthur rasped.

"Rise and shine," Merlin whispered back. Gwaine snickered.

Arthur's hand found Merlin's arm. "Are you all right?" his friend said.

Merlin heard in Arthur's voice that he asked about more than the physical symptoms of the poisoning. He heard the prince's concern over the losses he'd suffered the previous day, Will and… his father. Gone. The ache was there, but dull. It was likely he himself would die today – he wouldn't have long to mourn.

Arthur's words about Balinor – he was right. Balinor had taught him so much – not only _how_ to use his magic, but _when_ and _why_. _To serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man…to the last light of magic in my heart, both now and always._ Will had told him, _one day, your prince is going to be a great king - make it happen._

The deaths of his friend and his father had been intended by the two kings to distract him, to break him. It hadn't worked. It wouldn't work. He had sworn upon life, soul, honor to fight until Arthur's last enemy was vanquished.

"The headache is gone," Merlin said, keeping his voice low. "And I'm not so thirsty. No dizziness, either, but then again," he shrugged, though probably they couldn't see him do it, "I'm sitting on the ground."

"The spasms?" Arthur said.

Merlin could see now the lighter gray that was the sky, his two companions as shadows more solid than the rest. "Not at the moment," he said. He felt around then for the packs. "Want breakfast, sire?" he asked.

"What are our plans this morning?" Gwaine said, his hand meeting Merlin's as he doled out the rations. "The tree? I don't fancy running into more poison – though I do fancy running into the thrower."

"Mm," Arthur said in grim agreement. "As far as I'm concerned, the other four are equally our enemies – Morgause, Alvarr, Aredian, and – what's her name, the woman Uther approved to enter?"

"Catrina," Merlin said, picking up one of the water-skins to share among the three of them.

"You said this Aredian, this _witchfinder_," Gwaine sounded amused, though it was still too dim to read facial expressions. "He has no sword, he won't face us directly, right? What if we were to lure him into an ambush?"

There was silence. Merlin glanced around them warily; he could see green now in the darkness of the walls that surrounded them. But nothing that seemed out of place, strange or frightening. He hoped his vision would continue to stay clear.

"I thought the same myself, last night," Arthur said. "But what would lure him? I'm sure he's not meant to kill me, as I'm sure he wouldn't risk facing your sword. And Merlin –" he paused. Merlin found he could see the shadowy figures of both warriors turn to him at the same time. "Merlin, has Aredian any reason to believe you dead?"

Merlin opened his mouth to scoff, to protest, but stopped. Without his magic's healing force… _But Aredian would be used to dealing with sorcerers and healing magic_, he argued. _I'm nothing special, nothing different, only… Emrys_, Gwen's druid cousin had said. Ridiculous. The mistake of a young girl, a country girl in the big city of Camelot for the first time. He couldn't be…could he?

If Balinor… if another sorcerer had taken a faceful of belladonna – swallowing, breathing – would their magic be potent enough to save them? Both Gaius and his father had commented more than once on his unusual level of power and control – but he'd mostly dismissed the words as the requisite compliments of a proud father and an encouraging mentor.

"He might," Merlin allowed. The dryness of his mouth and throat had little to do with any lingering effects of the poison.

"Build another pyre," Gwaine proposed. It had grown light enough to see the gleam of his eyes and grin. "You've already done it twice. He'll see the smoke and think Merlin's dead…"

"And he might not guess you've stayed with us," Arthur added, his head bowed in thought.

"Merlin can disguise me," Gwaine went on. "And I'll be waiting if –"

"If Aredian comes to make an alliance," Arthur finished. "It would be safer for him to work with me, than on his own. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if Uther has already agreed to release him from his contract, grant him his life, if he and I remain at the end."

"If we don't get Aredian, we'll surely attract someone's notice," Gwaine said. "Well?"

Arthur raised his head, and a subtle smile of approval crossed his face as he looked from the other warrior to Merlin. "What do you say?" he said. "Bring them to us?"

"I am yours to command, sire," Merlin said, and made no attempt to stop his own grin.

"Right, then," Arthur said. "Let's get to work."

They spread out over a few rows, choosing a place that suited Arthur's plan, and found an eight-foot section of hedge that was free-standing, not linked to any other wall. Cutting it down left a small open area, and Merlin used magic to smooth the earth over the gnarled roots. The cut sections of hedge were placed to block access from the east, and Arthur with crossbow in hand would be in a short row with a blind turn at one end, just back from an opening in the middle of the next row. Gwaine and his sword would be stationed behind a hedge-illusion in that row, and across from Arthur, while Merlin would be behind the prince to guard his back. All three possible approaches were covered.

Arthur nodded at Merlin, who breathed, "_Baerne_." The smoke began to rise from the sections stacked like a pyre. They waited tensely, but for only half of an hour.

A voice came from the adjoining row, maybe ten feet from Gwaine's position, a cold, implacable voice. "Prince Arthur, are you there?"

Arthur exchanged glances with Merlin, who made an arcing motion to demonstrate where he guessed Aredian to be. It seemed the witchfinder was too wily to come straight to the prince. The question was, would Gwaine hold, or attack without Arthur's signal?

"I am here," Arthur answered. "Speak your mind."

"You have lost your sorcerer, have you not?" Chill amusement. "I have come to offer my – services."

"Come where I can see you, then," Arthur invited expressionlessly.

The witchfinder chuckled, a dry sound, like dead leaves blown by a cold wind over forgotten bones. "Cut me a path through the hedge, prince," he returned.

Merlin shook his head emphatically. Who knew what the older man planned to do with Arthur's hands and attention busy with the little chore. "Come around the corner, Aredian," the prince said. "So I know I can trust you." Arthur's mouth twisted in a distasteful grimace.

Again the dead-leaves dry-bones chuckle. "So you can shoot me with the assassin's crossbow?" he said. "You disappoint me, Arthur. Perhaps you are not ready for this caliber of game."

There was a whisper of movement, a flash of danger. Merlin glanced up as the small pouch sailed over the hedge – he put up his hand – and it burst as it touched his magic, splashing open inches from Arthur's stunned face. The prince flinched as the liquid belladonna ran harmlessly down the edges of the air-shield Merlin had conjured. He sent a wide-eyed glance back at the sorcerer, and Merlin twirled a finger to indicate that Arthur should keep play-acting.

Arthur affected to cough and splutter. "What the hell, Aredian?" he snarled. "What is this –"

Whether Gwaine had seen that Arthur had been shielded, or whether he thought the prince had taken the poison in his face, the other warrior roared and charged through his wall-illusion. Merlin ducked under the air-shield, avoiding the droplets rolling off it, following Arthur to the opening of the next row.

Gwaine, it seemed, had attacked with an overhead swing, expecting the older man to retreat. Over Arthur's shoulder Merlin saw Aredian avoid the swing and leap forward, dagger flashing in his hand. And before Arthur could aim the crossbow or pull the trigger, Aredian had spun around with Gwaine's back to his chest and the dagger at his throat.

Gwaine's sword slammed to the earth, and his hands clutched at his thigh. Blood spilled down his left trouser leg at an alarming rate, and Merlin held himself back with an effort, not wanting to crowd Arthur. But the prince had no shot, with Gwaine in the way. Aredian surely wanted Gwaine dead as much as he wanted Merlin dead, but not enough to risk the prince's crossbow bolt. Stalemate, but it wouldn't last for long, not with how fast Gwaine was losing blood.

"Put it down, Arthur," Aredian said condescendingly.

Merlin whispered, "_Ceolwaerc_." Arthur twitched, but kept his eyes on Aredian, the crossbow raised.

The witchfinder cleared his throat. "We all know your –" _cough_ "- deplorable tendency for –" _cough_ "-taking in the – strays that follow you –" Aredian's pale eyes widened, and he began to choke. Gwaine wrestled with the hand holding the dagger, keeping it away from his throat.

The witchfinder's mouth opened, lips spreading wide – and he vomited a purple toad right over Gwaine's shoulder.

Arthur took half a step backward, but Gwaine – who was probably concentrating on other concerns – pivoted around the older man, tripping him to his knees – and snapping his neck with a single savage twist.

The body fell, pale eyes sightlessly fixed on the purple toad, who belched out an impressive _croak._

"Merlin?" Arthur said incredulously. "_What_ in the –"

"Gwaine!" Merlin said, as the hedge beside the dark-haired warrior failed to hold him up, and he crashed to the ground. Merlin skipped over the body to get to Gwaine, ripping open the dagger-tear in his trousers to get a clear look at Gwaine's wound. Blood poured from the narrow cut in spurts – the blade probably had nicked an artery, Merlin guessed.

"Gwaine, may I?" he asked, meeting the warrior's eyes, which had begun to glaze with pain or blood-loss.

"You do what you gotta do," Gwaine gasped out, and forced a chuckle.

Merlin placed his hand over the bloody wound, closed his eyes to center himself briefly and concentrate, then whispered "_Wel cene hole_."

But blood continued to flow.

**A/N: Some dialogue and a spell from ep. 2.7 "The Witchfinder" and 3.4 "Gwaine."**

**Healing spell used by Taliesin on Arthur's arrow wound in 3.5 "The Crystal Cave."**

**Looked up some side effects of belladonna, so it should be fairly accurate what Merlin's experiencing here… And to apologize to Gwaine for making him Morgana in "The Witchfinder", I had him heroically and manfully snap the guy's neck. :D**


	17. The Crystal of Neahtid

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 7: The Crystal of Neahtid**

It never ceased to amaze Arthur. Put a sword in Merlin's hand and he was pathetically inept – more than one knight had requested that Arthur excuse his sorcerer permanently from group training, for all their sakes. He tripped, he dropped things, he spilled things. Merlin's clumsiness was something of a running joke in the castle. Arthur privately believed it was due to Merlin's mind being entirely elsewhere a good deal of the time. _Where_, exactly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he'd be surprised if ordinary daydreams of love or leisure could catch Merlin's attention so completely.

_But_, let there be an injury or illness, no matter how small or slight, and Merlin's entire being took on a sort of otherworldly grace that was astonishing to watch. Not that he'd ever tell his friend that, of course.

Merlin was kneeling by Gwaine before Arthur managed to tear his gaze from the bizarre purple toad beginning to crawl toward the hedge. His long fingers were gentle and sure as he inspected the wound. "Gwaine, may I?" He requested consent of the wounded, as Arthur knew he was required to.

Gwaine responded, somewhat fatalistically, "You do what you gotta do." The warrior's skin was pale and clammy. He let himself drop back to his elbows, then flattened out on the bare earth.

Merlin spoke as blood gushed over his fingers. "_Wel cene hole_." Arthur glanced around them warily, then watched his sorcerer in fascination. The blood continued to seep, but that didn't seem to bother Merlin. He shifted his fingers minutely, spoke again, "_Purhhaele dolgbenn_." And again, crooning the foreign words over the injury as the moments ticked by and the cloth of Gwaine's trousers soaked the blood in an ever-spreading stain.

Finally Merlin sat back, but it was more of a collapse. "Is there extra water, Arthur?" he said.

Arthur reached for Aredian's water-skin, hesitated, then left it lie by the body. Who knew? No point in taking a chance. He held out one of the extras, and Merlin indicated that it should be given to Gwaine. Arthur didn't miss the tremble in the sorcerer's hand at the gesture, but knelt by Gwaine's head to raise it and trickle water over his lips.

Gwaine came to with a snort and a shake, swallowing the water before lying back once again to gaze at the sky before meeting Arthur's eyes. "I'm alive," he said.

"Got it in one," Arthur said, amused.

"But there was too much blood," Gwaine stated. "Even a bandage and a tourniquet only delay the inevitable. You can't treat a wound like that under conditions like these."

"Merlin can," Arthur said, with considerable satisfaction.

"I thought –" Gwaine's eyes returned to the sky. "I thought he was just going to - make it easier, or faster. Make it hurt less. To die."

Arthur laughed, and repeated something he'd told Merlin a year ago. "It'd be a thankless way of repaying you for saving our lives." Gwaine barked a harsh laugh. "Can you get up?" Arthur said. "That pyre is still smoking – we need to move again."

Gwaine grasped the hand he extended, and he pulled him up to a sitting position. Gwaine poked open the tear in his trousers to show the mark, over an inch wide, red and irritated, but completely closed. If it wasn't for all the blood, sticky and fresh, the injury could have been weeks old.

Arthur turned to Merlin, to find him slumped sideways on his knees, leaning on the hedge with blood-covered hands lying limply palm-up on his knees. Fast asleep. Or unconscious. "Merlin," he said, moving around to the sorcerer's side.

"Is he all right?" Gwaine said. "Did that poison hit you two?"

"No, he blocked it," Arthur answered. He tapped Merlin's face until his friend blinked at him, and smiled his wide wry grin. "Have you finished your beauty sleep?" Arthur teased him.

"Nope," Merlin answered, with less than half his usual energy, but still popping the 'p'. "We haven't got that kind of time."

"Unfortunately, you're right." Arthur offered the water-skin, and Merlin held out his hands, scrubbing off most of the blood in the small trickle Arthur allowed, then wiping them on his own trousers before taking a swallow from the water-skin.

Gwaine turned to raise himself to hands and knees, and struggled upright to test the injured leg. "Merlin," the dark-haired warrior said, "Thank you for this. I mean –"

"Don't worry about it," Merlin said immediately.

"Gwaine? You going to make it?" Arthur asked, pulling Merlin up also.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Merlin said, swaying and turning white as a sheet, so Arthur didn't dare to move from his side. "Take it slow, Arthur."

"And you," Arthur returned. "That poison still bothering you?" He wondered if they should check the witchfinder's body for other weapons. The idea of using any more belladonna that they found bothered him. It was different, somehow, from appropriating Myror's crossbow, and he decided against it.

Merlin grinned. "Not a bit."

Arthur made a rude noise of disbelief. "You're wearing yourself out with too much magic, aren't you?" he said. The last time he'd seen Merlin do so much in such a short amount of time had been last year in the arena – and then he'd slept for fifteen hours straight. And Arthur was sure he hadn't seen half of what Merlin had done since yesterday.

"There's no such thing as too much magic," Merlin protested impudently.

"That's not what Gaius says," Arthur reminded him.

Gwaine limped back to them, took Merlin's arm to duck underneath it, and swung his own around the sorcerer's shoulders. "We'll manage, sire," the other warrior promised. "Onward, fearless leader." Gwaine's tone hovered between genuine respect and something akin to Merlin's own fond impertinence.

Arthur chose not to respond, but headed into the long rows and confusing turns once again, stealing swiftly to a corner or a break in the hedge to watch and listen as the other two labored behind him. He kept the towering bulk of the central tree in front of them, mostly, choosing the way at random and not trying to do more than get far enough away from the pyre-ambush to rest for a few hours.

"You're dragging your feet, mate," he heard Gwaine say behind him, and stopped.

"We'll rest here," he said, and Gwaine lowered Merlin to the ground before easing himself down also.

Arthur checked both directions through a break in the hedge, as well as a turn further up their row, listening, waiting, and deciding they were fairly alone. He turned to see Gwaine's head tipped back against the hedge behind him. Merlin eyed the packed dirt of the path, then sank down sideways, not even bothering to pillow his head before his eyes were shut.

Arthur stepped over them to seat himself in the corner they'd just rounded, the crossbow ready on his drawn-up knees, noting that there were only three bolts left to fire. He figured from the position of the sun it lacked an hour or so til midmorning. There was no reason to move, and every reason to rest. There remained three sorcerers, two of whom carried swords and might be working together. It was probably a good bet that they would not be easy to overcome. Especially in this twisted, constricted space that encouraged ambush, trickery, and subterfuge. In the amphitheatre they'd been allowed the same armor and weapons – swords, daggers, crossbows and so on, as well as whatever spells and magic the sorcerers could perform.

Here, it seemed, more subtle weapons were allowed. Poison had been used. What else was in store for them?

Gwaine, Cenred's slave-warrior, had surprised him. Out of the ten chosen champions, if he'd been pressed to judge, he would have declared the assassin or the slave as the least trustworthy. When had it happened that Gwaine had become an ally? More and more he hated to think of having to fight the other warrior and end his life. He'd not turn on Gwaine, that much he knew. Arthur believed Gwaine's loyalty would last until the three of them remained, and then he would make Arthur fight to kill him. Gwaine was not one to bend his knee and swear everlasting servitude and invite Arthur to end it quickly.

"He's not doing so well, is he?" Gwaine said softly, and Arthur saw his eyes were on the sorcerer.

Merlin's skin was nearly translucent, dark circles had formed around red-rimmed eyes, and his hair was spiked stiffly by that damn poison he'd had to fight out of his system. His hands, not entirely clean of Gwaine's blood, still trembled and twitched as he slept.

"You weren't kidding about it taking a lot out of him, were you?" Gwaine went on, giving him a curious glance and lifting a water-skin for a drink.

"Gaius says healing magic is the most draining for a spellcaster to perform," Arthur said, "because it's so personal, so – unselfish. Gaius could explain it a lot better." _Merlin_ could explain it a lot better, and often grew downright talkative when discussing magic in theory. But he was always so embarrassed and apologetic when it came to explaining anything about _himself_. He was sensitive to the surprise and wonder sometimes shown by people unused to his capabilities, and avoided thanks whenever possible.

"Who's Gaius?" Gwaine asked, rummaging in the pack and coming up with a biscuit.

"Our court physician. Merlin trains with him when I don't need him."

Gwaine gestured at Merlin. "I've heard quite a few different things about the two of you," he said. "Stories about that day in the arena – the victor, and the survivor."

Arthur grinned. "Good things?"

"Truth is stranger than gossip," Gwaine said, rubbing his outstretched leg absent-mindedly, his eyes on the unconscious sorcerer. "I can't figure him out."

Arthur laughed softly. "If you ever do, let me know, and you can explain him to me."

Gwaine said, "Some said he was a child, terrified of dying and begging for mercy."

_Ye gods_. He grimaced, and shook his head. How to put it into words? Merlin, wounded by Arthur's own hand – and he'd not said one word about it, then or since – having just blasted the last sorceress with lightning and cleared the storm from the sky, struggling out of a hauberk very similar to the one he now wore, kneeling and asking – Arthur said hoarsely, "He told me, one day I would make a great king. He told me not to worry about him, and asked me to – make it quick."

"_Hells_," Gwaine breathed. After a moment, he added, slowly, as if he thought Arthur might be angry, "There was another rumor, that a powerful sorcerer had enchanted your king and the court as well as the victor-heir, to rule you all from the shadows."

Arthur only smirked. "If you handed Merlin the crown on a purple velvet pillow, he'd look around the room to give it to the person he thought most deserved it."

Gwaine stared at Arthur. "A _kingmaker_?" he said incredulously, and his eyes widened. "He's not – you're not –"

"What?" Arthur said, but Merlin was stirring restlessly in his sleep.

"Shall I wake him?" Gwaine asked, with a crooked grin, bracing himself to rise. "What do you suppose he's dreaming about?" Arthur shook his head, wincing. In spite of Merlin's cheerful smile and eternal optimism, there was already far too much in his friend's life to cause him nightmares. Gwaine tipped his head to align his face with the angle of Merlin's. "Bad dreams? You can keep sleeping if you want to."

Merlin pushed himself up, with a wan acknowledgement for Gwaine, and turned to Arthur. "Something's coming," he said.

Crossbow in hand, Arthur stood. Some_thing_, not some_one_. Gwaine and Merlin provided each other the counterweight they needed to get to their feet.

"What is it, mate?" Gwaine asked, drawing his sword, on immediate alert. Arthur stepped to the side to check down the row next to theirs. It was empty.

Merlin turned, cocking his head. It was a little like watching one of his hunting dogs trying to pick up a scent, using eyes and ears and nose… and maybe Merlin was using a sense that he and Gwaine did not possess. Well, all three of the remaining champions could be expected to use sorcery.

"Arthur, I don't like it," Merlin said uneasily. "It's something powerful. And I – didn't sense this, when we were riding in."

Arthur refrained from pointing out that Merlin hadn't seemed to sense much of anything, as they were riding in. "Is there anything native to this labyrinth that we might not have been told of?" Arthur asked.

"No, no creatures, not according to Gaius' books," Merlin said distractedly, still trying to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. "And I doubt Anhora would leave artifacts just lying around."

"A weapon someone's brought with them?" Arthur asked.

"If that's the case, then it's something that has the ability to lie dormant, to activate with a –" Merlin's head tilted slightly to one side, a motion almost birdlike in its swift instinct – "spell."

"Do we run, or do we fight?" Gwaine said, glancing through a break in the hedge behind him to examine that row for any approaching threat.

"Arthur?" He noticed that Merlin was shivering, yet intent on a point diagonally behind him, beyond the hedge. "It's powerful, and I don't know what it is, and I'm not sure I can –"

Six yards behind Merlin, around the corner into their row strode Cenred's last male warrior, the serious-looking blonde, hand extended. _Alvarr_, Arthur thought, bending sideways so he could fire the crossbow around Merlin. Gwaine began to pull back from the break in the hedge, Merlin to face Alvarr, his own hand rising.

"_Folgie min bebeod_!" Alvarr cried out, and Merlin grunted, pushing his hand back at the sorcerer.

Arthur was weightless. From the corner of his eye he saw Gwaine's body tip and tumble also. The stock of the crossbow left his fingers, and Merlin dropped to one knee as Alvarr called the weapon to his own hand, narrowly missing Merlin's head. Arthur landed heavily on his back on the path, losing the air in his lungs for crucial seconds.

Alvarr's left hand shook something out of a pouch like dice from a cup, something like a grain of salt the length of a man's hand. It arced toward them – and froze between Merlin and Gwaine, close enough for either to touch.

Gwaine glanced at it warily as he pushed himself up from his prone position. Merlin, still down on one knee, put up one hand as if to shield his eyes from a glare.

The crossbow reached Alvarr's hand. He caught it lightly, spun it about to point at them, met Arthur's eyes with a cocky grin, then aimed and fired.

Arthur twisted violently sideways as the bolt shot by his throat, gaining his feet and drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Gwaine gazed at the – weapon? clear crystal _rock_? – with a look of horror on his face. Merlin's hand _shook_, and his head turned slowly, inexorably toward it.

Alvarr shot the last two bolts in quick succession at Merlin. The sorcerer wasn't even facing the blonde warrior anymore, but both bolts struck into the hedge beside Merlin's head and chest, instead of into his body. Alvarr cast the crossbow down at his feet, reaching for the hilt of his own sword.

Merlin's head turned far enough for his eyes to lock on the crystal. His face twisted into a snarl of dead hope and excruciating pain, and Arthur was startled into looking at the crystal properly for the first time.

Leon and Percival appeared in the row, their red ceremonial capes cutting through Gwaine and Merlin like smoke. The faces of the knights held twin looks of absolute _disgust_. They exchanged a glance, then turned in tandem finality away from him. _No amount of training can correct a fundamental inadequacy_.

Between and through the knights, Alvarr's sword cleared its sheath, and the blonde warrior leveled it at Arthur. He brought his own up –

Guinevere appeared, regal in purple silk, her hair arranged as if for a banquet, with flowers crowning the curls. Her head was high, and her nostrils flared in loathing. He stepped forward and she twitched her skirts away from him. _You delude yourself thinking there could ever be love between us…_

Past her left shoulder, Alvarr took his first step toward Arthur, an expression of gleeful anticipation on his face. "Beg for your life," he called to the prince.

Ygraine shook her head in sorrowful frustration, _You are not your father. You could never measure up… _She turned away, drifting through Gwaine's body, as Arthur moved another step forward, bringing himself nose to nose with Uther Pendragon.

The king glared at him coldly, the crown majestic on his head, his fists on his hips, his lips twisted in rejection. _Utterly worthless… incapable… no longer my heir… nobody's heir… _

Arthur lowered his head and one shoulder and plowed through the king, one more step. Alvarr put one foot in front of the other, shifting his weight forward.

Hunith. Hair tucked under a green scarf. Gentle disappointment, and bottomless sorrow. She glanced to the side, and Arthur helplessly followed her gaze.

Merlin, on his knees, fingers clutched through his hair, eyes black as Cornelius' possession, the exquisite torture plain on his expressive features as though the heart in his chest was being wrung bloodless.

_He would gladly die for you_. Hunith's work-hardened hand brushed lightly at the chainmail covering Arthur's own heart. _His father already dead. His father, his life… You are not worthy of him. You do not deserve_ –

_FIGHT_. Merlin's furious, commanding voice resounded through his soul. _Fight, Pendragon. Eyes forward._ Arthur felt the bones of his neck creak as he dragged his gaze from his sorcerer, his friend, his suffering _brother_, to Alvarr, just beginning his attacking swing.

_Fight, Arthur._

He pushed forward, between and past his two companions, ducking under the suspended crystal. His sword rose to block Alvarr's strike, and time sped up, fasterfasterfaster – overhand, underhand – he slung their joined blades around in an arc, blocked a blow to his face, and freed his left hand from his sword's hilt to punch the other warrior full in the face. Alvarr stumbled back, surprised, then roared and slashed out wildly.

Arthur ducked the blow, sprang past the man – and felt his blade slice through the flesh of the man's back.

Alvarr screamed and fell to his knees. Arthur used both hands to plunge his sword downward through the base of his neck, burying more than half the length of his blade in the body of his enemy.

He managed to keep his grip on his weapon as the corpse slipped sideways, freeing it from its bloody sheath.

The crystal dropped to the packed earth without so much as a bounce or rattle. Gwaine gasped as though he'd been holding his breath and a great weight the whole while, sagging down and having to support himself with his hands on his knees. Merlin didn't move except to shift his hands to cover his eyes.

Arthur breathed. And breathed. Then thought to check the other approaches to their position. No one else attacked. Alvarr had been alone. They were alone.

"_What_ the _hell_ was _that_?" Gwaine said in a strangled voice.

Merlin's voice, by contrast, was so quiet and calm that Arthur shivered. "There should be a pouch for the crystal. Arthur."

There had been. He looked down, all around, saw the drawstring beneath Alvarr's knee, and yanked it free, pausing only to wipe his weapon on the dead warrior's clothing. Gwaine staggered two steps toward Arthur, two steps away from the crystal, giving it a glance of helpless horror and fascination.

Arthur was reluctant to come closer. He could swear the stone was _whispering_, still.

"The wielder is dead," Merlin said in the same calm near-whisper. "You will see nothing."

Gwaine exchanged a glance of revulsion with Arthur, who stepped to his sorcerer's side, pulling the drawstring mouth open as far as it would go. Merlin held out his hand and Arthur didn't think twice before giving him the pouch. His friend's eyes were still shut, his features glacially still, but he seemed to pause and take a deep breath before scooping the crystal into the pouch.

Merlin's clumsiness was a joke through the castle, but one smooth motion was sufficient to enfold the crystal, and Arthur could swear Merlin's skin never touched the rock. The sorcerer tied the drawstring, his long fingers knotting it tightly and swiftly, before he dropped it again, and sat back with a sigh.

Then he looked at Arthur – no, he stared intently at Arthur – and gold _flickered_ in the depths of his blue eyes. "Are you all right?" Merlin asked him. "I'm sorry."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Compulsion was a gentle thing, a soft thing, Merlin thought. Light voices sang to him, promising, low voices growling and threatening, and all intertwined in a dissonant beckon. It was not a compulsion he felt, but a vicious, merciless _itch_, and Merlin's fingers twitched toward the pouch with the need to scratch his soul bloody gazing into that crystal.

He kept his eyes on Arthur, the sky-blue of the prince's eyes gradually clearing from the effects of the magic. Merlin laced his fingers together in his lap and _squeezed_ so hard he might've broken his own bones if he wasn't careful.

"You're sorry?" Arthur said, uncomprehending.

Gwaine said again, from several paces away, and not facing them, "What the hell was that?"

Merlin took a moment to give attention to his body's need to breathe, then answered as calmly and matter-of-factly as he could manage, "I believe this is the Crystal of Neahtid. I read in one of Gaius' books – it holds great knowledge. Some say, the secret of time itself."

Arthur glanced down at the pouch uneasily, and Merlin wrestled against the temptation to let his eyes do the same. He closed them and lifted his chin to ease the effort of breathing on his airway. "Great knowledge?" Arthur said, and Merlin could hear him remembering whatever disturbing visions he'd seen.

Merlin whispered, "The knowledge of what is, what has been…what is yet to come." He blocked the memory of his own visions with absolute resolve.

"I saw things," Gwaine said hoarsely. "Terrible things – but things that never happened. Are you telling me I saw the _future_?"

The muscles in Merlin's neck and shoulders tightened, pinching nerves. He answered, hearing the strain in his voice and attempting to soften it, "Gaius taught me, there is nothing on this earth that can know all possible futures, even the crystal." _Ye gods, send it isn't so._ What he'd seen – he was aware that he was shaking as if he'd spent the last two days in the snow.

"But what I saw," Gwaine persisted, "it was so _real_." He was begging Merlin to tell him it was nothing, a dream a vision a hallucination.

Merlin swallowed, and his throat was so dry it stuck shut for a moment. "Just one reality. The future is unshaped, Gwaine. It is we who shape it. The decisions we make. The actions we take – I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

He felt Arthur's hands on his shoulders, and opened his eyes again. "Hey, come on," the prince said roughly. Arthur took off one glove and rubbed the heel of his hand across Merlin's face - he hadn't even noticed the tears spilling out of his eyes. "What are you sorry for? It's not your fault."

"I wasn't strong enough," Merlin said. The thing in the pouch snickered _never strong enough to save the ones you love_… He tore his eyes from it and fastened them intently on his prince once again. "Gwaine was caught because his defenses were weakened by the blood loss. I was caught –" he gulped. "I could not fight the crystal's magic, not for all of us. And you, Arthur –"

"Stop it," the prince commanded, his own eyes unusually bright. "I heard you, Merlin_. I heard you._ He's dead, and we're all alive, and that is _success,_ in my book."

"We've got to go," Merlin told him. "That much magic – like a blaze of light – the sorceresses will have seen it. They will come."

Gwaine cursed. "You realize we now have two _women_ to face?" he said. "So what do we do with that thing?"

"We can't leave it," Arthur said, looking to Merlin for confirmation. _Leave it… take it…the damage is done_. "We can't let it fall into their hands," the prince added.

Merlin nodded and reached for the pouch, freezing momentarily as his magic simultaneously howled eagerly for more and screamed in terror to retreat. He felt a ravenous nausea and the bones of his skull ached. Had the crystal never been activated, had he never looked into it, it might have provoked nothing but mild curiosity, a thoughtful whim easily decided against.

The damage is done the damage is done.

He pinched the ends of the leather tie of the pouch and rose, carrying it away from his body as one does the body of a dead rat swinging by the tail, so it did not touch him, but also trying not to betray to his companions the depth of his revulsion and attraction.

"I can carry it if you'd rather not-" Arthur began, and Merlin brushed past him, forcing a grin.

"Who's the servant here, you or me?" he said. "I can carry the baggage, that's my job."

He rounded the corner and continued swiftly, the two warriors following him.

Nervous energy flooded through him. If he stopped, he might very well dig the crystal out and lose himself gazing in its depths. He didn't know the spell to activate it again, not in his rational mind, but his instincts warned that wouldn't matter, he wouldn't need a spell. So he stalked along, ducking down this row, turning up the next one, seeing nothing but blue morning sky, brilliant green hedge-foliage, dark brown earth underfoot.

Seeing also the very path that would lead them to the tree, seeing the location of the two witches, one about a hundred yards away to the northwest, the other over two hundred yards to the north, on the other side of the tree.

A burning stitch stretched along his side, and he walked faster, sweat pouring from his body. His nostrils stung with dragging air into his lungs. He began choosing turns that were _not_ on the path to the tree, and immediately sensed the new route to that central destination.

"Merlin, slow down," Arthur panted behind him. Merlin spun on his heel to retreat back the way they'd come, crashing gracelessly between the two warriors. "Stop!" Arthur ordered, snatching at his hand.

He gripped the pouch-strings so tightly he could no longer feel his fingers, and focused on standing absolutely still, as obedience required, his breath sobbing softly from his lungs.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" Arthur demanded.

He couldn't move, could not allow mouth and lips and tongue the freedom to speak, for fear his control would slip. He would be lost, lost in the crystal, useless to Arthur…dangerous to Arthur.

"It's hurting him," he heard Gwaine say behind him. "Isn't it, Merlin? You're trying to get away from it, except that you're…carrying it with you."

"Let go, Merlin," Arthur said gently. "Let me have it."

Merlin shook his head, feeling scalding tears roll down his face once again. No, it was his burden. His responsibility.

"Can we smash it?" Gwaine said, desperation in his tone. "Can we hide it up in the tree? Get to the edge of the labyrinth and chuck the damn thing over the side?"

_Emrys_, another voice said gently. _Emrys, let go. Let me have it_.  
He opened his eyes, blinded momentarily by late-morning sunshine. Down the row they were in, almost to the end, a puddle glinted on the packed-earth path. He moved forward slowly, dropped to his knees next to the thin sheen of water, vaguely aware of the two warriors behind him.

He spoke, "_Diegol cnytte, gweitte me yst_." The surface of the water glimmered, and the scowling countenance of Uther resolved. "Move out of the way," Merlin told him, clearly and calmly. "Anhora?" Another glimmer, and he saw the image of the old man, the hood of the white robe on his head, eyes keen over the hooked nose.

The old man's lips quirked_. I am here, Emrys. You carry a burden I can lift_.

Merlin held out the pouch over the puddle. It twisted in the air. Every tiny fiber of the leather was riveting in the extreme. If he really tried, he might even be able to look _through_ the –

_Emrys_.

"_Aliese hine_," he gasped. "_To Anhora he cymth_." He released the string, and the hidden crystal dropped like a stone, through the water – there was no splash, no disturbance of the surface. The pouch was gone.

Merlin sighed, and collapsed onto the dirt of the path.

**A/N: Again, the healing spells are from ep. 3.5 "The Crystal Cave." Alvarr's spell and other dialogue from ep 2.11 "The Witch's Quickening". The scrying/sending spell derived from the one used by Nimueh in ep.1.3 "The Mark of Nimueh."**


	18. Beauty and the Beast

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 8: Beauty and the Beast**

Merlin was fast, almost recklessly so.

Gwaine brought up the rear again, behind Arthur this time, and only caught glimpses of the sorcerer when they turned down the longer straighter rows. His style of leadership was more like Gwaine's own – too fast for someone to come up from behind, relying on reflexes and surprise if they came upon one of the other champions – than Arthur's more cautious, conservative style. But Gwaine had seen enough of Merlin's reflexes to be completely sanguine about their chances of survival if they rounded a corner to meet one of the sorceresses unexpectedly.

At least, he figured, they wouldn't be working in cooperation, one from Cenred's kingdom and one from Uther's – although, he and Arthur were working together, but that was because he, Gwaine, valued freedom of choice above all, these days. As a ruler would not have much of that, after all, he had no desire to be crowned prince of two kingdoms.

Arthur, he thought, was worried more about Merlin than about the route Merlin chose – completely random, as far as Gwaine could see, and it didn't matter, really, did it? Maybe Arthur worried because Merlin was pushing the pace too hard? Gwaine could keep up, though his leg ached stiffly, and there was no real need for hurry. It wasn't as though the tree was going anywhere.

Unless – Merlin wasn't trying to _reach_ something so much as he was trying to _escape_ something.

Arthur said, "Merlin, slow down!"

Both warriors were unprepared for the abruptness of Merlin's reversal of direction. Gwaine stepped back at the look on Merlin's face – the grim determination of a graying warrior who's seen too much and knows the situation to be unsalvageable. The boy-sorcerer pushed awkwardly between them.

"Stop!" Arthur ordered, having to catch Merlin's arm to hold him back. "What on earth is the matter with you?"

Gwaine could see how taut Merlin's whole body was, how white his fingers were, clenched around the drawstring of the pouch. Gwaine's eyes were drawn to the crystal's resting-place also, and the memory of the things he'd seen stirred uneasily in the back of his mind, but the posture of the boy spoke of more than flight from bad dreams.

"It's hurting him," he said aloud. "Isn't it, Merlin?"

That was it. He'd seen many men injured, wounded. Merlin was behaving as though the crystal was a weapon lodged in a fatal wound – _no, don't touch it_, such men had panted, knowing that to withdraw the arrow, the knife, meant death, though death was already inevitable. There was a terrible preoccupation with such a weapon and such a wound, a disbelief and an undeniable certainty.

"You're trying to get away from it," he said, "except that you're – carrying it with you."

Arthur tried to coax the cursed thing from his friend's grip. Gwaine turned away, trying to reason some other solution, some way of extracting the shard from the sorcerer's wound without killing him in the process. They couldn't keep it. They couldn't let it lie.

He said, "Can we smash it? Can we hide it up in the tree? Get to the edge of the labyrinth and chuck the damn thing over the side?"

Arthur looked at him hopefully, and Merlin broke away from him, heading once again down the row. Gwaine grimaced and followed Arthur, but instead of tearing off into the labyrinth again, Merlin fell to his knees before a small puddle, speaking a spell.

The surface of the puddle rippled as though a little breeze blew, and Merlin said, "Move out of the way." Gwaine stepped back involuntarily, though he saw nothing but muddy water. "Anhora?" Merlin said.

Did scrying work both ways? Gwaine was impressed. Of course they all knew they could be and would be watched by the kings and the other members of the cavalcade, but he had sensed nothing of the sort since entering the labyrinth. Merlin held out the pouch over the puddle, choked out another spell, then dropped it.

Somehow the crystal passed _through_ the inch of water and disappeared. Gwaine felt an echo of the relief that had flooded him when the sorcerer-warrior's death had freed them from the visions of the crystal.

Merlin tumbled lifelessly down in the middle of the path. Arthur leaped forward and knelt in the puddle, yanking his glove from his hand with his teeth to feel at Merlin's neck for his pulse. The prince sighed and shook his head in relief, then loosened his pack and tucked it under the boy's head.

"It's noon," he said to Gwaine. "If you watch down that way –" he pointed back the way they'd come – "I'll watch this way." He indicated the corner past the puddle.

Gwaine stepped back where he had a clear line of vision down the intersecting rows, and paused over the strip of dried meat he took from his pack. It was odd to think of such mundane things as eating, after everything he'd seen and done in the past two days.

_What are we doing here?_ he thought. _This is crazy_.

"What are you going to do with him?" he asked aloud of Arthur.

"We'll let him rest as long as he needs to," Arthur said firmly. "All day and through the night, if necessary."

"No, I mean…" Gwaine hesitated, not wanting to offend the prince. "I mean – they were pretty definite on the _only-one_ result. I gathered that the thousands of citizens watching the two of you in the arena last year had a lot to do with both of you living – but there's no audience this time, Uther's made sure of that. If is so happens that we –" or even just the two of _them_ – "defeat the witches, then what?"

Arthur sighed and gazed down at the sleeping sorcerer. "Look at him," he said, gesturing. "Ever wonder why the other sorcerers in here don't seem to be affected like this by the use of their magic? It's because they don't over-extend themselves. Because they know there would be no one to protect them if they reached this point. Merlin gives without thinking – no, that's not quite right. He knows the consequences, and he does it anyway. He's an idiot, you know – dead exhausted from protecting _us_."

Gwaine snorted, jerking his head. The two of them, strong capable fighters, needing protection from this skinny boy – it was true. And if it had been anyone else, it would have galled him to admit it.

"I can do no less," Arthur said with a peculiar intensity. "He would die for me – and I must see to it that he does not. He is _mine_, Gwaine, my sorcerer, my brother. Do you have a brother?"

"No," Gwaine said. "I have –" _No one_, he was about to say. But it wasn't true anymore, was it? "I know what you mean. But –" He gestured around at the green hedges that walled them in.

Arthur rubbed his forehead with one hand as though it pained him. "I suppose, if it came to it, I could knock him out, you could take him to one of the other entrances – or chop a hole in the outside wall…"

Gwaine could see it in his mind's eye, the three of them left alive, Arthur turning suddenly to throw the punch intended to knock the sorcerer unconscious – Merlin freezing time with Arthur's gloved fist inches from his face – the shock in Arthur's eyes and the sorrow in Merlin's – Arthur released to follow through on the blow – Merlin on his back on the ground, bleeding – Arthur kneeling beside him, sobbing _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Merlin –_

"You think he'd let you do that?" Gwaine said in bitter amusement.

"Then what? Then _what_?" Arthur said. "A year ago I told the king I couldn't watch Merlin die. And Uther told me, _then don't look_. Merlin is – a healer, a scholar. His magic is enormous, but it's – _defensive_."

"A king must be able to command his forces to battle knowing that some must fall," Gwaine observed.

"Not this one," Arthur shot back, pointing down at his friend. Gwaine could not answer.

They stayed in that row. The sun made its slow journey to the west. The puddle shrank, turned to mud, and dried.

Gwaine thought, _What do we do_? And the answer was, _nothing_.

He was a man of action. He hated that answer. More than once he ventured down another row, around another corner, creeping and listening and – nothing. More than once he almost suggested that he go after the witches alone. But – what would happen if one of them slipped past him to attack the prince while the sorcerer was unconscious?

He hoped the inactivity was chafing the kings, too.

Wait. Wait for Merlin to recover. Wait for their young brother to wake, to rise, to grin. To fight by their sides and guard their backs.

"What do you suppose he saw in that crystal?" Gwaine asked Arthur at last, from sheer boredom.

Arthur grimaced. "What did _you_ see?" he returned the question.

Gwaine paced around the corner, and back again. He'd seen – himself. Cenred's prisoner. For the rest of his life. Becoming an animal. Slowly losing any hesitation or regret in killing, any respect for life, beginning to rejoice in the blood, beginning to prolong his opponents' agony, becoming savage, until he spoke in snarls and grunts and no longer cared about the filth and the cold and preferred to be solitary. He'd seen himself, old and grim, holding on to his humanity, fighting the bestial urges, doing his best to retain a semblance of manners and cleanliness – and being cut down in an instant in Cenred's battle-pit. All for nothing.

Death in the labyrinth was preferable to any future the crystal had shown.

"I saw – hopelessness," Gwaine said slowly.

Arthur said, "I saw failure."

"I saw death."

They startled, looked back and down to Merlin on the ground, his arms hugging close around his chest, his eyes open. "The death of those I love, over and over, and I couldn't prevent it – Gaius, my mother –"

Gwaine thought, _Ah, hells. His father and his friend_. Then he wondered, _did he see Arthur's death? Did he see mine?_

The season's growth of loose leaves rustled as the breeze picked up – and there was a scent on the wind. It was a wild, elusive scent, warm and – _green_, as though the hedge was exuding its own tang, sweet and spicy and – _free_. It called to him, tantalizing, promising.

Distantly he noticed Arthur turning his head uneasily. Vaguely he was aware of Merlin pushing himself upright.

He was restless, he was searching – and then he saw her. The woman in white, beautiful, elegant, earnest. She met his eyes with bashful eagerness – she loved him, wholly, completely. Him, a slave with a bloody sword, but that didn't matter to her. _He_ mattered to her, the noble lady… she loved and needed _him_.

He shrugged off the other warrior's hand, he ignored the sorcerer's voice. He moved toward the lady, every step of his bringing pleasure and fulfillment to her. Her eyes brightened as he reached her, and she lifted her token, an amulet on a chain with a glowing red heart in the center. For _him_ her champion, chosen above all others.

He dipped his head to accept her token around his neck, and their souls sang in harmony.

"_Gwaine_!" A male voice roared behind him, and he remembered them, his rivals. He spun on his boot-heel, glaring at them a warning, moving his hand to his sword-hilt. They would not take her from him. They would not harm her – they deserved not even to look upon her – this fair beauty was for him alone.

His hand drew the sword from its sheath, his blood warming to the fight, urging him on. _Prove your love. Win your lady_.

The skinny boy in blue stood at the side of the aisle, his sleeve brushing the leaves, his eyes down – a _child_. No threat to _him_. But the other – a young man, strong and golden-haired and _jealous_, who drew his own sword, slowly. This rival would not concede defeat, not til he lay _gasping his bloody last!_

Gwaine roared his rage, and attacked.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's voice said, "I saw failure."

Merlin snapped back to consciousness with a rapidity that would have been dizzying had he not already been lying on the earth.

He understood what Arthur meant with a rare clarity. He understood that Arthur's entry into the arena games last year was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to honor his father, but that Arthur hadn't truly seen beyond acquitting himself with dignity and skill in the arena, just as Merlin hadn't thought beyond earning grain for his village and protecting his friend.

Arthur doubted. His deepest fears now ran along the lanes of disappointing those who expected so much of a crown prince. This was something Merlin knew, and it didn't trouble him. He believed in Arthur enough for both of them.

Disappointment could be rectified, could be overcome. Mistakes would be made, that was life, and where there was life, there was hope. What he had seen was worse.

"I saw death," he said aloud. He'd seen Gaius in the arena, trying to shield him from Nimueh, only to be struck down, Gaius stretched on a block of stone for torture, Gaius led to a high and ready stake. He'd seen Hunith, fighting against the depredations of the warrior Kanen, crown prince of Camelot, wielding a rake against a marauder's sword. He'd seen Hunith in crippling agony from a disfiguring disease. He'd seen other possible pasts, changed because of decisions that had been made. He'd seen – other deaths. Other futures.

There was a moment of silence in the aisle between the tall hedges, as Merlin did not dare to check what expressions might be on the faces of his companions. A little breeze meandered up the row, spicy, deliberate… insidious.

Merlin blinked at the haze of green swirling through the avenue like mist, as though the breeze had captured the essence of the hedges, drawn the life of it to twist and waft about. He rolled to his hands and knees, pushed himself upright, leaned on the hedge to prepare himself for whatever was happening.

A woman swept around the corner – a lovely woman with hair a perfect auburn hue, searching, searching for something – someone – something – he yearned to be the one to match her requirem… to fulfill her expecta… no, that wasn't right. That wasn't who he was.

She was not the one for him.

Gwaine strode past, startling him. "No, Gwaine, don't!" he said, knowing something terrible would happen if the warrior submitted to the woman's spell, struggling against its foul miasma to think straight. If she chose Gwaine then _he_ would be rejected and that was… unthinkable. No, it was fine, it was great, he needed to be free for –

Something terrible. The woman lifted a chain, an amulet winking an evil red eye, and Gwaine bowed to accept it.

"_Gwaine_!" Merlin bellowed, as if he could prevent the completion of the spell with the force of his voice alone.

"Stop it, Merlin," Arthur whispered beside him, glassy-eyed. "If she makes him happy, that's all that matters…"

Merlin said shortly, trying to shake the last of the spell off himself, "She's a _troll_."

Arthur huffed, his eyes still focused – or, unfocused – on the Lady Catrina. "She's not that bad," he contradicted Merlin with a small regretful sigh.

Gwaine spun around to glower at them under lowered brows. Merlin instinctively glanced down, knowing that the enchanted warrior would seek any excuse to fight at her bidding. Arthur reacted by putting his hand to his sword-hilt – Gwaine drew – Arthur drew. Gwaine attacked.

Merlin tensed, ready to intervene, but – he wasn't sure it was necessary. He'd seen Gwaine move swiftly to kill Aredian, he knew the dark-haired warrior was skilled to have survived Cenred's entertainment matches so long. But he moved against Arthur like a half-trained knight, like the clever strategist had been submerged into a crude bully. Arthur would have no trouble holding his own against enchanted Gwaine, even held back by his reluctance to kill or even severely injure the other warrior.

That left Merlin free to face the sorceress. He turned and found her eyes on him, smelled the faint siren's song of her spell. She moved closer, swaying provocatively with a subtle maturity more frightening and compelling than the blush of inexperienced girlhood. He tensed, ready. He couldn't leave Arthur to fight Gwaine forever, but every second meant he absorbed more information vital to defending whatever attack she launched.

"You," she murmured, close enough to reach out her hand and stroke the back of her fingers down his cheek. He froze at her touch, but allowed it. "You are so… _fresh_. Such a beautiful young man."

Merlin couldn't help it. Skinny, awkward, dirty, hungry, yes. _Beautiful_? He laughed out loud at her. "And you are old enough to be my mother."

Her features hardened. "You are a _child_," she said, dropping her hand. "How is it that you evaded my spell? You surely can't have met the love of your life already."

"I – what?" he said.

"I'm surprised at the prince too, actually," she said, looking over her shoulder at the dueling pair with patronizing possessiveness. Merlin felt the golden connection to his prince, strong and sure, and didn't take his eyes from the sorceress. "I thought, a new prince introduced to court intrigues, he'd have half a dozen conquests to weaken his resolve. Although, as you can see," her eyes returned to his face, and her teeth bared in a feral smile, "all I really need is one." She cocked her head, studying him with new interest. "You smell like belladonna," she remarked.

Without thinking, he said, bluntly and honestly, "You smell like dung."

She slapped him, and followed up with a swift blow to the pit of his stomach that punched the air right out of him. It felt like the kick of a mule, powered by an inhuman strength - and training, he realized belatedly, in hand to hand combat. Ridiculous. He couldn't hit a woman.

He gasped, "_Ic the withdrif_!" It had no effect.

She lifted her skirt to kick him into the hedge, where he stuck as she hissed, "_Gehaeftan_!"

The hedge itself sprang to life, vine and twigs and leaves spinning around to bind him. He cried out again, "_Ic the withdrif_!" and again his spell seemed to dissipate around her.

She spoke again, chanting a more complicated spell, and to his horror, the section of hedge that held him fast began to lean over, all the little stems and leaves reaching for the dirt of the path, fighting to delve deep and root themselves.

He pushed backward as hard as he could, and as she bent forward to chuck his chin like a child's, he noticed her own medallion – magic whispered to him the secret, it was a shielding charm and none of his spells could touch her, not directly.

She stepped past him, focused now on the two warriors – and Arthur could not fight the witch and her champion at once.

Merlin hissed "_Gehaeftan_," and vines snaked out from the hedge opposite to capture and hold Gwaine, who roared and wrestled ineffectively with the attacking foliage. Arthur retreated momentarily, breathing hard.

Over Catrina's shoulder Merlin saw the prince's eyes widen as he took in Merlin's predicament and the sorceress' advancement.

The hedge knocked Merlin to his knees, with a weight like the gates of Camelot had been placed upon his back. He grunted, pushing back against the hedge – like a ton of stone and rubble, like one of the arena monoliths pressing him down. Catrina's foot came down on the strap of the pack Merlin had pillowed his head on.

He spoke, "_Fleoge hraegl_," and the pack jerked, taking her foot with it.

Merlin's chest scraped on the packed earth. Between the path and the edge of the hedge-wall on top of him he saw Catrina flat on her back. Arthur's boot stepped in close, Arthur's blade flashed, and blood poured over the front of the white dress. The sorceress' body went still, just before the thousands of stretching twigs plunged into the ground, obscuring his sight.

Sharp woody points burrowed into his skin, seeking to join the earth no matter that he was in the way. He heard Arthur scream his name.

Merlin stopped struggling. He took a deep breath, and concentrated, drawing the life of the hedge, every twig every leaf every flower, the moisture the pollen the sweetness the energy into himself, every puncture of his skin a conduit for the draw of vitality.

The inward trickle faded, ended, and Merlin relaxed with a sigh, fingers and toes and everything in between tingling. The pattern of the labyrinth presented itself to him shyly, familiarity as simple and natural and marvelous as a perusal of one's own fingerprint ridges.

He heard his name again, twice, by two different voices, and opened his eyes, feeling a faint surprise that he was a person with a human body. The cage of dry sticks and brittle brown leaves engulfing him shook, rattled, and the prince hissed and swore. "Merlin, if you can hear me, answer me!" Arthur demanded.

"Arthur, it's grown into the earth," Gwaine said in a shocked voice.

"M'all right," Merlin mumbled.

"What? Merlin?"

"Stand back," he managed more clearly, and waited a moment to hear the shuffle of their boots before whispering, "_Forbearnan_."

Gwaine yelped out loud as the section of dead hedge-wall encompassing Merlin burst into flame. To Merlin it felt like his magic had come to play on the outside of his body, warm and flickering in mischievous abandon.

And then there was nothing but a final wisp of smoke and a thick coating of ash – which flew up into his face as Arthur's knee disturbed it. He choked and coughed and spit dirt and leaf detritus from his mouth as Arthur's hands turned him onto his back.

"_Hells_, Merlin, you scared the life out of me!" Arthur said angrily. "Here now I thought you'd been swallowed by the labyrinth itself, or – or burned to death - and you're not even hurt!"

Gwaine grinned over Arthur's shoulder, his neck bare of the amulet. Merlin signed in relief. Love-spells were notoriously hard to break. If it wasn't the kiss of true love – which in this case would have prevented the enchantment from working to begin with, or so it seemed – or tears of true remorse, the death of the caster was always a last resort, but never a guarantee.

Gwaine observed, "There's blood on his face."

"She hit me," Merlin told him. Arthur grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet.

Gwaine snickered. "Why, what'd you say?"

"Nothing!" Merlin said defensively. "Except – I told her she smelled like dung."

The dark-haired warrior guffawed right out loud. "Ye gods, boy, I am going to _have_ to live long enough to give you some pointers on dealing with the fairer sex."

Merlin began to protest, but Arthur's eyes twinkled as he pointed out, "Gwaine, I'm pretty sure Merlin dealt with this one better than you did."

Gwaine looked down at the woman's body, the red of her blood covering the bodice of her white dress, and sobered. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Merlin – thanks, mate."

Merlin nodded. "Although, I hate to mention –"

"We still have one woman left to deal with," Arthur finished the thought.

Gwaine said, grimacing, "I'm afraid she's going to be the hardest one of all to face."

**A/N: Spell from ep.1.11 "The Labyrinth of Gedref", other dialogue and spells from ep.2.5-6 "Beauty and the Beast." **

_**Forbearnan**_** being one of Merlin's favorites and used in several eps, I had in mind ep. 3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow" when Merlin lights a fire on his hand to show his magic to Gilli, without hurting himself… **


	19. Knights of Fire

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 9: Knights of Fire**

_Gwaine said, grimacing, "I'm afraid she's going to be the hardest one of all to face." _

"I think you're right about Morgause," Arthur agreed grimly. They'd put several rows between themselves and Catrina's body by the ash heap, before hunkering down to share some food and discuss the situation. "And not the least because – none of us really wants to fight a woman."

"I will do it," Merlin said.

Gwaine snorted, watched him twisting a dark-red ribbon that he'd pulled from a hiding space between his shirt and his hauberk pensively around his fingers. Arthur had looked at it and said nothing, so Gwaine followed his lead, leaving the sorcerer to his reverie unquestioned. "Merlin, mate, you've done more than your fair share of fighting," he said. "If anyone fights her, it should be me – I've plenty of reason to want her dead."

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur said briskly, to both of them. "We'll all fight together. Now – council of war. Ideas? Gwaine?"

Gwaine hid his surprise. A prince who asked for input, instead of ordering them to follow a plan of his own making, sound or not. Did that make Arthur an idiot or a genius? "Well, she won't fall for an ambush like the witchfinder," he said finally. "And I doubt she risks herself on a gamble like Catrina did with that spell. She is the daughter of Cenred's brother-in-law – no royal blood, therefore, and since they're related through marriage, Cenred's council wouldn't accept her as a legitimate heir, but her ambition has always been strong."

"I agree," Arthur said neutrally, absorbing the new information without expression.

"She has our measure," Merlin said, with soft caution. "She has seen and felt my magic. She has fought Arthur. And I'm guessing she's seen you fight, Gwaine?"

He scowled, nodding. Yes, plenty of times he'd fought under the cool condescending gaze of the beautiful blonde witch.

Arthur scratched absently on the dirt path with a twig. He and Gwaine crouched opposite each other, ready to leap up and interrupt the quick meal they were making from the ration-bags if necessary. Merlin, by contrast, rested easily in the middle, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him. Although, Gwaine had to admit, he was probably just as ready to fight as either warrior. He just wouldn't have to jump up first.

The young sorcerer looked, Gwaine thought, a little better after getting some food and water inside him. They were all grubby from fighting and sleeping out-of-doors, smudged and smeared with dirt and blood and sweat, but Merlin bore an extra grimy layer of ash on his clothes, hair, and skin.

Merlin glanced up at Gwaine, read the question on his face, and nodded, giving him a small private smile, the one that Gwaine already knew meant, _I'm fine. Don't worry about me._

"We can use that against her," Arthur spoke finally. "Use what she thinks she knows. About each of us." He paused, glanced at each of them, then set his jaw determinedly. "I – hesitated," he said. "During our fight. I was unwilling to use tactics I normally would against a man. She may expect such – overly gallant behavior from me again."

Gwaine's eyebrows rose. Such a confession would be highly unusual for a knight, a noble – and this coming from the crown prince of Camelot.

"She spoke a spell to kill," Merlin said slowly, his blue eyes thoughtful. "I assumed she intended it for Arthur, and I shielded him… it was a mistake. She intended to curse me and – my father, so she could deal with Arthur at her leisure. It almost worked."

Arthur nodded in understanding, but placed his hand for a consoling moment on Merlin's knee.

"She's seen me fight for my life, for another meal," Gwaine said. "More times than I can count. She'll know every move I make."

"But," Arthur said, pointing the twig at him, "you disobeyed her order to kill me. If she's scryed us at all, she'll know that you're with us."

Gwaine squinted up into the sun, low over the western hills. "She may see that as a change of loyalty," he admitted. "She may see me as an – opportunist."

Arthur made a noncommittal noise. "At the very least, she may not know what to expect from you. So we use all this against her."

Gwaine couldn't stop the question popping out. "How?" he said.

Arthur shifted to face Merlin, who looked up at the prince for a pair of heartbeats before saying, "Nimueh."

"What's that?" Gwaine asked. Some spell they could use against Morgause?

"The last sorceress we faced in the arena last year," Arthur answered Gwaine. "We figured she knew we'd be fighting together, and when we were ordered to the middle of the arena to force the issue, Merlin had already guessed that she had used sorcery to fashion a monster to kill me while she faced Merlin, so we were ready for that."

Gwaine noticed that both their faces had tightened grimly at the memory. "There's a _story_, there," he said.

"She made an afanc," Merlin said, explaining quickly. "Creature of earth and water. Then tried to talk me into joining my power with hers." Gwaine thought, _there's much more to it than_ that. Merlin twisted the ribbon, and looked up at Arthur. "Think Morgause will have some similar distraction?"

"It makes sense," Arthur said. "What's her other choice? Run from us? Hide and hope we all turn on each other? We have the surplus of supplies. So will she use the same sort of tactics again – neutralize Merlin immediately, try to convince Gwaine to join her or help her, face me in an even swordsman's duel?"

"She had you on your back, mate," Gwaine pointed out, then bit his tongue. Slaves did not call princes _mate_, but Arthur didn't seem to notice.

Merlin added, his eyes on his ribbon favor, "She was furious she couldn't kill you herself, without magic."

"I think it's safe to say she'll want a rematch," Gwaine said, grinning. His grin slipped as he wondered what Morgause might have up her sleeve to deal with another sorcerer. His orders had been simple; he was not privy to Morgause's whole strategy.

Merlin shuffled his shoulders against the hedge behind him, looked over Gwaine's shoulder to where, Gwaine remembered, the central tree loomed. "Whatever we decide, it should be quick," the sorcerer blurted, tucking the ribbon back inside his hauberk.

Gwaine twisted in his crouch. The tree was gilded with sunset light, but was – hazy, somehow. Indistinct. "Is that smoke?" he said.

"She's begun burning the labyrinth," Merlin said. "She's calling us."

"Should we retreat?" Gwaine asked Arthur.

"We can't let her continue," Merlin said with more command than he's shown during the whole conversation. "We can't let her destroy this place." He pulled in his legs, took the twig from Arthur's hand and began to scratch more purposefully in the dirt.

"She's _luring_ us," Arthur corrected, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He met Gwaine's gaze. "Just as we did Aredian."

"Whatever she wants us to do, we should do the opposite," Gwaine advised.

The prince's lips quirked in a wry grin. "If we could figure out what that is," he said. "We shouldn't simply walk to her one after the other in a straight stupid line like sheep, but I don't like the idea of us splitting up, either."

"Here," Merlin interjected, tapping his scratch-marks. "The pattern of the labyrinth approaching the tree."

Arthur immediately bent his head to study the scratch-map in the dirt. Gwaine stared at Merlin, who shrugged and gave him a little self-conscious smile. "I may have picked up a few things when I absorbed the energy of the wall that was trying to bury me alive," he said humorously.

Arthur smacked Merlin's knee lightly, his attention on the pattern the sorcerer had drawn. "This is excellent, Merlin," he said absently.

"Merlin," Gwaine said slowly, "you ever hear the legends of Emrys and the once and future king?" Arthur's head snapped up at the mention of that name, and he looked from Gwaine to Merlin expectantly.

Merlin studied the pads of his fingertips as though he found something fascinating there. "My father may have mentioned them once or twice," he mumbled.

"That druid girl, what was her name?" Arthur said. "Gwen's cousin. She called you Emrys."

"Freya," Merlin said softly, not looking up, and Gwaine thought of the ribbon.

Arthur looked at his sorcerer another long moment, then turned his attention back to Gwaine. "What about this legend?" he said.

"Supposedly Emrys is the greatest sorcerer of all time," Gwaine answered. "He stands with, or trains, or gives his life for – depending on what version you're hearing - the once and future king. The one meant to unite Albion."

"But if he's Emrys, does that make me –" Arthur's expression was not one of awe or incredulity or thrill, but of nervous apprehension.

"It's not us, Arthur," Merlin said, quietly and calmly. "She was wrong. She was young, she made a mistake."

A look of uncertain relief crossed the prince's face. Gwaine looked at his two companions, and believed Merlin was wrong. That _something_ special about Merlin, about Arthur, about Merlin and Arthur… No one had that kind of self-sacrificial loyalty. No one had that kind of compassionate strength, that golden glow of inspirational leadership. That something, was definitely the stuff of legends. With the two of them together…

"This is what I think we should do," Arthur was saying, pointing at the map with the twig. "We can go together to this point here. Then Merlin, you cut down this row, around this corner and back up along here to the east. Gwaine, you and I can continue to this intersection, and where it splits you'll follow the curve and come out here to the west. I'll go up the middle. We'll come out roughly the same time – but the two of you, wait for my signal." He glanced up, and Merlin nodded.

Gwaine wrestled a moment with a sudden rather ridiculous desire, wanted to continue with his habitual devil-may-care sarcasm, not succumb to any tragically noble posturing at this late date.

But he could die tonight.

"This is going to sound a little stupid," he said, with a reluctant grin. "But – indulge me, sire." If he was sharing jerky and biscuits with the once and future king himself, if he was passing a water-skin back and forth with Emrys in the flesh, he had one chance to be something more than himself, also. He shifted, putting one knee down on the dirt path.

"I have been highly privileged to meet you, Arthur of Camelot, to fight at your side these two days. If I have been of any service to you at all, then my life has had meaning I never dared hope for. I am no one, but I would swear my loyalty and my service to you for as long as we may have left. I will follow you, Arthur Pendragon, to my death – and beyond, if I am allowed. I may die tonight, but I would not have missed this for the world."

Arthur stared at him, then straightened as Gwaine remained kneeling. And though the young prince was weary and filthy, he was magnificent. Merlin stood also, his shoulder just behind Arthur's, his eyes shining in approval. Arthur's hand rested a moment on the hilt of his sword, then he drew it with a soft whisper of steel on steel.

"We may die tonight, or we may live," Arthur said. "But I'll do something Uther won't approve of." He rested the flat of his sword on Gwaine's right shoulder. "I accept your oath. I swear in return to strive always to lead in honesty and wisdom and respect to the best of my abilities, on and off the field." He looked down into Gwaine's eyes for a moment, with the faintest of quizzical smiles, then said, in all seriousness, "Rise, Sir Gwaine. Knight of Camelot."

Gwaine stood, feeling a little unsteady. Slave yesterday, knight today. _Ye gods_, he had walked right into a legend. Arthur reached out his hand, and Gwaine unhesitatingly clasped his prince's forearm.

Arthur gave him a brilliant smile. "Let's go meet our destiny, then."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur paused at a juncture where the row spilled out into three new choices of which lane to follow. He was pretty sure the left-hand aisle would take them to the point where Merlin would leave him and Gwaine, but he glanced over his shoulder at his sorcerer to check again.

Merlin nodded, giving Arthur his intimately radiant smile, the one Arthur was afraid he might never see again on his friend's face, after the death of his father. But they were facing their last enemy – and Gwaine was a knight of Camelot. Arthur hadn't had a chance to discuss the choices of the dark-haired warrior with Merlin, but it seemed they were of one mind on the issue, as they often were. Merlin accepted and trusted Gwaine, and one glance at the young sorcerer was sufficient to tell that he was thrilled at Gwaine's knighthood. He never doubted Arthur for an instant.

The sun slipped behind the western hills as they reached the point of divergence. There had been no hint of life anywhere near them, nothing he'd seen or heard to learn of Morgause's location. Just the conviction that her trap waited for them at the tree, and they must face her there without further delay.

He paused again at the angled turn, watched his knight throw an arm about his sorcerer's shoulder. "Thanks for everything, Merlin," he heard Gwaine say softly. "You take care of yourself."

"Of course," Merlin returned with a cheerful grin. "Always do." He included Arthur in the grin momentarily, and turned to take the aisle away from them.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, and his friend looked back expectantly. What could he say? What was there to say? _Just – don't get yourself killed_. He said, "If I need a servant in the next life –"

Merlin laughed softly, his eyes bright. "Don't ask me!" he returned, and disappeared around a corner of the hedge-row.

Arthur signaled for Gwaine to follow, each warrior carrying his blade bared and ready. They reached the gap in the hedge where Arthur was to turn, while Gwaine continued around the curve, and the dark-haired warrior transferred his sword briefly to his left hand to grasp Arthur's right.

"Thank you," Arthur said. "Good luck."

"I'll see you when I see you," Gwaine answered with his devilish grin, and loped away out of sight around the curve.

Arthur flexed his fingers, adjusted his grip on the hilt of his weapon, then crouched slightly in a fight-ready stance and stalked forward. Every moment that passed leeched light and warmth from the air.

His heart pounded. His senses heightened, processing more of the world around him, and faster – the faint rustles of the hedge, the damp pleasant smell of the outdoors at dusk, the more acrid whiff of smoke. The tree moved, branches and leaves, but nowhere did he detect any sign of the warrior-witch.

He eased along the hedge that separated him from the area around the base of the enormous tree, up to the last corner. His back to the hedge, he scanned the slice of ground visible, giving attention to the end of the hedge marking the row where Gwaine would emerge, though the knight wasn't revealing his presence yet, as instructed. He leaned cautiously out to increase his range of vision and study the area at the foot of the tree, a ring of packed earth maybe thirty yards across, rippled with extending roots.

No shadows moved. No Morgause.

He slipped past the break in the hedge, giving the rest of the ring a quick glance before risking a longer look. Nothing. No one. But the witch surely wouldn't expect them to come following-the-leader right into her trap. What was her plan, then? What was her ambush?

In the center of the ring between two of the uneven roots was a large deep basin, crudely scraped and dug, roughly six feet in diameter and a foot deep, filled with remnants of char and smoking coals, the glow soft in the gathering gloom.

Who had done that? And why? Morgause, for some reason of sorcery? What had been done with the scooped-out earth?

Arthur glanced out again, and squinted into the greater darkness behind the tree, noticing that one long hedge-wall had been sheared off near the ground. Had it all burned in the pit?

Where was the witch? High in the tree? Dozens of yards away in the depths of the labyrinth? Hidden, as Gwaine claimed Merlin could hide, seven feet tall and leafy green?

Morgause's target was Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin merely obstacles to her goal. Arthur moved deliberately from cover, three feet out into the open, bracing himself for the attack – which didn't come.

He did not signal his companions. Eyes and ears alert, he stepped to the firepit, and stopped again to survey the area, before kneeling to stir the coals with the point of his sword. Deep red flared to white and bright orange, and the encroaching shadows retreated momentarily.

He stood again, looking around, feeling the sense of vigilance drain away as no threat presented. No threat _he_ could sense. He turned his eyes toward the gap where Merlin was supposed to be, jerked his head in invitation.

The young sorcerer slipped from his hiding place, crossed toward Arthur in absolute silence, like a hunting tomcat, alert to every whisper of noise, every shift of the air, pausing twice to peer into the shadows to either side. No sign of the ridiculed clumsiness, anymore. He stopped a few yards away from Arthur, not close enough that they could be taken like two birds with one stone.

"Well?" Arthur whispered. He was pleased that Gwaine remained hidden. The newest knight had sworn obedience to his command, but his dedication had not been battle-tested yet. "Can you tell what she's been up to?"

Merlin spun in a half-crouch. "What's that noise?" he breathed.

Arthur strained to hear anything but the soft rubbing of leaf on leaf, almost like the soft patter of raindrops. "What noise?"

Merlin twisted the other direction, his shoulders twitching in an involuntary shudder. "A sort of trembling sound," he said.

Arthur heard nothing, but it bothered him that Merlin was bothered. "That's your knees knocking together," he whispered, hoping Merlin would have some tension-breaking insult of his own to deliver, before admitting they could relax their guard –

A sudden gust of wind swirled smoke and sparks and made Merlin's shadow tremble behind him. "Arthur!" he shouted, and the shadow loomed solid, striking out at the sorcerer. Merlin's head snapped back and he dropped, his head slamming against a root.

"Gwaine!" Arthur roared, spinning around to find his own shadow rearing back to aim a killing blow.

Arthur's feet shifted instinctively, his blade rising to block that of his attacker, and for a handful of moments, his attention was focused on the enemy blade, a clumsy, heavy broadsword with an odd red-brown sheen to it, not like metal but like – clay.

Blows fell, and he parried, feeling the weight and strength quivering through his own steel, giving ground helplessly before the onslaught.

Then he looked into his opponent's face and almost tripped himself flat. The face, the head, the body was an oversized parody of a man, formed from stick and leaf and twig, wearing a crude mask of mud. He leaned back to avoid a slash at his neck, and drove his sword hard through the figure's chest.

The mask bent down slightly, and from somewhere inside, the thing growled. Softly. Then threw Arthur off so hard he stumbled and rolled to avoid another attack, his fingers keeping their grip on the sword-hilt through sheer bloody willpower.

As he scrambled to his feet to resume his defense, he caught a suggestion of movement and ducked to the side as a second hedge-man swung his own clay broadsword at Arthur's left flank. More than one. More than – he retreated to keep them in front of him, in his line of vision, searching the shadowy ring, counting – six. Merlin was still in a motionless heap between the roots, but at least the hedge-men were ignoring him. Gwaine fought furiously, giving ground before two of the nightmares as a third picked itself up from the ground with stiff awkward movements.

Arthur ducked another blow, danced to his right, then plunged his sword into the center of the hedge-man before him, dashing to the side and allowing his blade to slice through the shadow-wrapped warrior, snapping twigs and scattering leaves. He sprinted to his own knight's side, calling his name in warning, and spun to place his back against Gwaine's.

"We've got to get to Merlin!" he panted.

"Ready when you are!" Gwaine gasped. The clash of weapons did not sound as a clear metal on metal ring, but as a dull, deadened rasp somehow more chilling. "Where is he?"

"He's – oh, _hells_."

The hedge-men stopped, forming a loose circle around the two warriors. Between two of the figures Arthur watched Morgause look up from her crouch over Merlin's body, less than ten yards away, her eyes and smile bright. Her lips moved, and the ashes and coals in the pit blazed with light like a bonfire. Gwaine shifted against Arthur's back, the stiffness of his muscles indicating wariness and defiance, though the two warriors took the respite offered by the brief withdrawal of the puppet knights.

Morgause stood, dragging Merlin's body up to a kneeling position by a handful of his shaggy black hair. He came to consciousness with a gasp, trying to wrench himself away from her grip, and Arthur's heart stopped.

Aredian had brought belladonna, Catrina a charmed amulet. Morgause had brought _chains_.

Silver links glittered in the firelight, looking almost delicate against Merlin's leather hauberk, eight or ten loops wrapped tightly about his body from knees to shoulders, trapping his arms. Whatever magic required the use of his hands would be impossible – Arthur wished he'd paid closer attention to Merlin's ramblings about spoken and silent spells, the usage of hand gestures or head movements.

"You intrigue me, Merlin," Morgause said, speaking clearly. Behind Arthur, Gwaine shifted his weight. Arthur could sense the other warrior's labored breathing through the contact between their backs and shoulders, and the absolute _stillness_ of the hedge-men in comparison was eerie.

"Where's Arthur?" Merlin demanded.

"Right there." The sorcerer's eyes followed hers, and Arthur tried to put on a reassuringly resolute expression for his friend.

The second Merlin saw him, surrounded by the shadow-warriors, he bellowed, "_Astrice_!" and all six stumbled backward at once.

Gwaine jerked as though ready, eager to rejoin the fight, but Merlin's sharp cry of pain distracted them both. Arthur, who hadn't looked away from his friend, could swear that the delicate silver chain had _tightened_ in response to Merlin's magic.

Merlin fought for his next two breaths, then looked up into Morgause's face. She nodded with a peculiar expression, like that of a tutor giving approval to a young student who's guessed a right answer.

"Shall we be civil for a moment?" she said, raising her voice to clearly include Gwaine and Arthur. "I'd like a word with Merlin before we all start trying to kill one another again."

Gwaine shifted again behind Arthur, but he remained still. _We're lucky_, Arthur had once said to Merlin, _magic-users as such a chatty lot_. The more time she spent talking, the more time there was for him to figure a way through this fight. Their swords were useless against the hedge-men, just as his sword had been useless against the afanc. But what might fire do? If he could somehow manage to shove one into the fire-pit…

"Uther gives you no respect," Morgause continued, addressing Merlin. "You are treated like a servant by everyone in Camelot, including your precious prince. Why do you give them your loyalty? Why do you put your power at their disposal, when you are strong enough to bend the world to your will?"

Merlin's eyes flickered briefly to Arthur's, but he said nothing. Arthur himself knew there wasn't much use – someone like Morgause would never understand the motivations of someone like Merlin. Arthur knew his friend's mind would be racing through possibilities for escape and defense also, and slid his foot sideways in preparation for his attack against the nearest hedge-man, calculating how far and how hard he'd have to push the thing to knock it into the fire-pit.

Morgause's eyes flashed at him, and all six shadow-wrapped figures raised their clay swords in simultaneous threat. Arthur froze.

"You know the answer, and you're not telling me," Morgause observed, leaning down to look in the young sorcerer's face. Arthur noticed that Merlin – though by the clear blue of his eyes he used no magic – couldn't help struggling against the confining chain. "Come on, it's not a secret, is it?" the blonde witch needled her captive. "You risked your life for him, last year in the amphitheatre of Camelot, and these last two days in the labyrinth. You gave your father – for what? For _him_?"

Arthur remembered crystal-Hunith saying, _His father, his life… You are not worthy of him. You do not deserve…_ He shivered. If Merlin ever left him, the bottom would drop out of his world.

"There must be a reason," Morgause added in a singsong voice. "You think you'll be recognized, Merlin, is that it? Rewarded? All this so one day you can be the pet and plaything of a king?"

Arthur bristled, and it seemed Merlin's dignity was offended also. He blurted, "I believe in a fair and just land."

"And you believe Arthur can give you that?" She was amused. "He's the son of a common woman. He was born to be subservient to the likes of us, not to rule – and surely not to rule over _two_ kingdoms."

"You're wrong!" Merlin blazed suddenly, then pressed his lips together and bowed his head, as though he thought he'd said too much.

Morgause's face was gleeful as a child sniffing out a secret. "No, there's something more." She circled Merlin, then crouched down next to him where she could watch Arthur and Gwaine also. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there? Something about Arthur."

Merlin bit his lip, shook his head. Arthur thought suddenly of Gwaine's mention of the druid prophecy – once and future king – meant to unite Albion… but Merlin said it was a mistake…

"He's already told you enough!" Gwaine shouted. "Leave him alone!"

Morgause straightened. "Cenred has an offer for you, slave," she said. "Stay out of my way and your life will be spared. Aid me, and you can win your freedom."

Gwaine spat on the ground. Morgause's face bore an offended disgust for a single instant before Merlin lifted his head toward Arthur and spoke a single word. Arthur didn't hear him, but the spell was a favorite of his friend's – he recognized it as Merlin's eyes flashed golden and all six hedge-men burst into flames.

Gwaine yelped a startling profanity. Merlin gasped, leaning forward, as the silver chains made visible dents in his flesh. The leather hauberk wouldn't give him enough protection, Arthur thought grimly, and leaped into action. He and Gwaine slashed at their flaming enemies; Morgause simply stepped back from Merlin, her expression betraying nothing but interest, as she watched them.

The blaze slowed the fiery knights, that much was apparent. Arthur was well able to hold three of them at bay, and landed more than a few unblocked blows – without result. The material of their bodies was in no way consumed, and their blades continued ineffectual. The heat and the glare stung Arthur's eyes. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face. They'd gone two days now on rationed water, had fought several battles, and now faced tirelessly inhuman foes. And Morgause wasn't even participating. Sooner or later they'd tire. And Merlin was a bound captive.

"This isn't working!" Gwaine bellowed across to Arthur. Sparks flew as he slashed at one of the torched figures.

"_Tidrenas_!" Merlin shouted, then cried out loud in pain, as thunder rumbled. Morgause glanced down at him speculatively.

Arthur grabbed a breath desperately to command, "Merlin – no more!" Those damn chains squeezed tighter with every spell his sorcerer cast – and they were wrapped tightly to begin with. But Merlin wouldn't listen to him – if it caused him pain to try to save Arthur's life he'd pay the price willingly.

A fat raindrop hit Arthur's cheek. Then another, and soon a downpour was drenching the labyrinth. The burning warriors were gradually extinguished, their movements growing more sluggish, til finally Arthur beat down the defense of the one on his left, and his sword lopped the hedge-arm right off. Both he and the smoldering figure stared down at the bundle of sodden twigs and charred leaves, before Arthur whirled into action once again. A triumphant shout from Gwaine told him that his knight had discovered the same thing.

But as the burning hedge-knights were chopped apart, discarded and quenched, the illuminating fire in the central pit dropped low and murky, and the stormclouds obscured any moonlight there might have been. Arthur could heard Gwaine, a good distance away, near the labyrinth wall where he'd emerged, grunting as he slashed. He assumed Merlin hadn't moved. Arthur was reduced to swinging at shadows, and twice almost overbalanced as his sword met nothing.

Then he froze, crouching on one knee. He sensed no movement, heard nothing except the downpour of rain on flat earth. It would be stupid to call out to his friends, the witch would know right where he was, if she didn't already.

Instead of speaking, Arthur crept swiftly toward where he remembered Merlin to be, his sword ready but held to the side, his left hand extended to locate his friend, his boots careful of the jutting roots.

Finally his hand fell on the sorcerer, who grunted and twisted away even as he hissed, "Merlin!" to identify himself. He tried to pull the top loop of the chain upward over Merlin's shoulders to allow some slack in the coils, but it was so tight he couldn't get a grip on it with his fingertips. He could tell his fumbling was causing Merlin pain.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Can't see a _thing_."

Merlin whimpered, then words burst from his throat, "_Hine on ylde_!" A ball of ice-bright blue light shot straight up into the air above them, as the chained sorcerer groaned and sank forward til his forehead rested on his knees.

Arthur sprang up, sword ready. To the left, Gwaine ran toward him, blade flashing silver-blue – _where's_ _Morgause? _– and the knight's feet left the ground as he was blasted hard against the wide trunk of the tree to tumble down among the roots.

He spun, raising his blade to defend against her attack from behind. She delivered blow after blow, feverish in her attempts to overcome him. She'd had decent training, at least, and with the uneven ground underfoot and rain sheeting down and his own level of exhaustion, they were fairly well-matched.

But unlike the witch, Arthur was not fighting for himself.

He blocked every blow, then began to launch his own attack. Once well away from Merlin, he ceased to give up ground, and pushed her, varying his attacks, right then left, overhand underhand, a slash a jab a feint. She danced back and he allowed her no breathing-room, pressing the advantage.

She hissed, "_Acenne slaep swylce cwalu_!" and her eyes flashed golden under the weird blue light.

Arthur felt an immediate lethargy, as though he'd been a week in the labyrinth without sleep. His energy drained away, his limbs heavy as clay. He stumbled, and she jumped to attack, quick as a cat. He rolled away, whirling to try a slow backhand cut that she easily blocked.

He backed toward the tree. All he could hope for now was for her to trip, to drop her guard long enough for him to finish this – or for Gwaine to recover and –

His heel caught on a root and slid in the mud, and he crashed spectacularly to the ground. He felt his ankle twist and catch as his sword left his hand. He scrabbled after it briefly before facing Morgause again empty-handed. The blue light was behind her, illuminating the wavy cloud of blonde hair and the rain falling all around like a bizarre veil. He couldn't see her face.

He wanted nothing more than to let his head drop down onto the root behind him and sleep, but he blinked his eyes clear of the unnatural weariness.

She snorted her contempt and raised her sword for a final blow.

Merlin screamed, "_Oferswinge_!" Blink. Morgause's body was dashed a full four yards – _blink_ - to slam into the tree trunk – _blink_ – Merlin was on his knees, face tipped up to the rain – _blink_ – the sorcerer's terrible scream continued, increased, until the breath left his lungs, and he tumbled sideways. _Merlin_! But - the blue light remained.

Arthur twisted around to see Morgause stir, raise her head to pin him with her fierce gaze. She shrieked out, "_Ic bebiode thine cyning cwellan!"_ and shuddered, then rose with renewed vigor. She bent to retrieve her sword – his was still two feet beyond his reach, and his body was limp and unresisting. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

A dark form flung itself forward from his peripheral vision. A dagger glinted briefly blue – then stabbed into the center of the witch's chest. She looked down in horror, and Gwaine's hand released the hilt.

And Arthur's eyes slid shut.

**A/N: Some spell-work and/or dialogue from ep.1.4 "The Poisoned Chalice" ep.1.13 "Le Morte D'Arthur", ep.2.12 "The Fires of Idirsholas", ep.3.1 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon", ep.3.13 "The Coming of Arthur". Whew!**


	20. Punishable by Death

**Part II: A Game of Two Kings**

**Chapter 20: Punishable by Death**

It hurt to breathe. He tried to stop, and it hurt not to breathe. He tried to return to the darkness, but there were two lights holding him back. His magic recognized them both as belonging to him. He had to stay, he was responsible.

One was blue, icy and bright, illuminating all that was outside of himself. The other was golden, warm and gentle, sustaining all that was inside him.

"Merlin," said the golden light, coaxing him up from the depths. "Merlin, you have to wake. You have to help us help you."

Us. Oh, yes, there was an _us_, wasn't there? A plurality of loyalty that included him, but was no longer limited to him.

Another voice spoke, a voice heard only with his ears, and not with ears and heart combined. "Arthur, if his ribs are badly broken, he could be bleeding inside. He could be drowning in his own blood."

Arthur. He opened his eyes to the blue light, and held himself completely still. Lines of fire cut into his body, arms legs everywhere, squeezing breath and blood from him, cutting each section numbly off from the next.

"Merlin, can you hear me?" That golden voice. He couldn't see anything but blue light and a pair of knees.

"Don't touch me," he whispered.

"I'm not. I won't. Merlin – she's dead. Do you understand me? Morgause is dead. But we can't get this chain off of you, and it's –"

_It's killing me_, he thought vaguely. If Morgause was dead, then his job had been fulfilled successfully, and he could let go – only that golden connection would not release him.

"We think – we hope – d'you think the spell she put on the chains would have lifted with her death?" the golden voice continued. "Could you do one more spell to free yourself? Merlin?"

"If that spell isn't lifted, he'll be crushed trying," the second voice said tersely. Someone was pacing, he could feel the reverberations in the ground at every footfall, jarring his damaged nerves.

_ Please stop. Please stand still. Everything, everyone, just – be still._

"I am not letting you take your sword to that chain," the first voice growled, "you'll take his arm off that way."

He whispered, "What do you want me to do?"

"Break the chain, loose the chain. Free yourself, Merlin."

He breathed, "_Abrecap benda_," loosing his magic – and cried out as the lines of fire disappeared. His blood and his magic raced through his veins, around and around, dragging with them an excruciating sensitivity, finally melting and pooling in his core.

He breathed, and it no longer hurt. As much. It was ragged, but his bones didn't scratch together, anymore. He heard a jingle of metal, felt hands swift and rough but compassionate moving over his body.

"His breathing is regular," the golden light said. "His pulse seems fine. Let's just let him sleep."

"Sleep sounds good," someone else answered. There was a pause, a series of scuffling movements, something was slipped underneath his head. "Merlin," the second voice added with sardonic amusement. "Could you trouble yourself to turn out the lights?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine was pretty sure the outer bone in his right forearm was broken, cracked by a deflected blow from a clay sword. He'd slept like a log, on his back, his arm extended on the muddy ground next to him – probably snoring like a pig, he'd been told that before – and when he woke in the wan gray dawn, his whole arm was stiff and his fingers refused to function properly.

He found he couldn't raise his body to a sitting position unless he first rolled to his side and pushed himself upright. Arthur lay on his back also, one hand under the back of his head, his eyes open and clear, studying the lightening sky with a solemn expression. He'd been awake for some time already, Gwaine guessed.

Merlin, however, was still curled on his side as if he hadn't moved since they'd peeled the chains from him, motionless except for the faint stirring caused by breathing. His color was a bit better, though they had all looked haggard and skeletal under that weird blue mage-light.

"Morning," Gwaine rasped.

"So it is," Arthur returned.

Gwaine gestured at Merlin. "He doing any better?"

"He's still breathing," Arthur answered. "I'll not ask any more of him, not til he's ready."

Gwaine pulled his legs beneath him and rose, glancing around the open area at the foot of the tree. Last night he'd dragged the bodies – bodies? the witch's body, at least, and the mucky remains of the burned hedge-knights – to the far side of the open ring, behind the tree's massive trunk, while Arthur had tended his unconscious sorcerer.

Arthur snorted derisively. "Checking to make sure they hadn't come back to life?" he said. "I did the same when I woke. No…it's over, Gwaine."

_Not yet, it's not_, he wanted to say, but didn't. He just turned and headed into the labyrinth to retrieve the ration-bags and water-skins they had abandoned the night before. Arthur was sitting up when he returned, still expressionlessly lost in thought, though he nodded at Gwaine's quiet assessment of the remaining food and water.

"We could last another day," the prince summed up, dividing the dried meat and biscuits, tossing the last apple to Gwaine. "But we won't have to."

"You have a plan?" Gwaine asked. "I was told it would be impossible to leave the labyrinth until the victor was chosen by right of survival."

"It's not so much a plan," Arthur said, his jaw set in a stubborn way that Gwaine was beginning to recognize, "as it is a determination."

Gwaine nodded. He had more questions, but it was not his place to question his prince. _His_ prince. He gave himself a sarcastic grin – who would have thought that a slave, a _damn madman_, would ever voluntarily swear his life in service to a noble. And who could have expected that the prince in question would take him seriously – accept him – _knight_ him?

"You know," he said conversationally, "you wouldn't have to knock him out, now. I could take him and head out, try our luck at one of the other entrances, where the kings aren't waiting." Arthur gave him a pointed look, flicking his eyes to Gwaine's injured arm. "I could manage," he said defensively. "There's not much to him, after all."

Arthur glanced down at the sleeping sorcerer. "No," he said softly.

Gwaine wasn't sure whether the prince was responding to his suggestion, or agreeing with his assessment of their friend. "I have to ask," he said. "How did you manage to convince Uther to let both of you live?"

Arthur gave him a smile both curious and amused. "He went down on one knee and gave me this – spontaneous oath of fealty."

Gwaine chuckled. _Guess it wasn't such an original idea, after all_. "That happen to you much?" he joked.

The prince's smile twisted sideways wryly. "I think he was trying to persuade me to accept the victory without worrying about his fate, but I refused to kill him. It was –" he shook his head.

"Unthinkable," Gwaine offered softly, and the prince nodded.

"The king wanted to execute him, and I wouldn't let him, and Gaius reminded Uther that all our subjects were watching."

"Nobody's watching this time," Gwaine pointed out.

"I was taught," Arthur said evenly, "_integrity_ describes what you choose to do when no one is watching." He turned his eyes on Gwaine. "I will keep him, no one will take him away from me, but – if you wish to be released from your oath, try your luck elsewhere – I will do so, and never think less of you."

Gwaine huffed. "Nah," he said, making light when he'd never felt more serious. "Thought I might die, last night. Few extra hours, more or less…" He stretched, and grimaced at the pain that shot through his arm.

Arthur opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Merlin muttered something indistinctly against the ground. They watched the sorcerer shift, wince, and slowly regain awareness. "M'wake," he grumbled crossly, then more clearly, "I _heard_ you! I'm awake." He sighed and opened his eyes.

The prince gave his sorcerer a crooked smile of undisguised pleasure. "Rise and shine, Merlin," he teased. "You plan to laze about all day?"

The sorcerer groaned in protest, flopping over to his back, reaching out for the water-skin in Arthur's hand. "No, he says we have to-"

The prince, instead of releasing the water-skin, grabbed Merlin's forearm, sliding his sleeve down to his elbow. All three of them stared silently at the bruising visible, one mark low on his wrist, the other two closer together and almost to the elbow. Red-purple in color, the small circles betrayed the exact placement of each link of the chain.

"Ye gods, that's fairly disgusting, isn't it?" Merlin said flippantly, but made no move to rise, or even lift his head.

"Is the rest of you like this?" Arthur asked, sternly blunt.

"Probably," the sorcerer said, pulling back from the prince's grasp gently but insistently, to drink awkwardly from the water skin, still flat on his back.

"What about your ribs?" Arthur persisted. "We were concerned, if your bones were badly broken, a sharp end could puncture –"

"No," Merlin said, quietly but decisively.

"Explain," Arthur ordered. "Or Gwaine and I will strip you to examine you right now." Gwaine held his tongue with an effort.

"And what? Make me heal myself?" Merlin scoffed. He took another swallow and allowed the water-skin to fall at his side, and closed his eyes. He was very pale, Gwaine noticed, and dark circles stood out around his eyes. "There might be a crack or three, but no other damage."

"Aside from the bruising," Gwaine said.

Merlin squinted up at him. "Are you two all right, then?" he asked, struggling to rise to a sitting position. Arthur gave him one hand, Gwaine knelt to offer his left. A spasm of pain crossed Merlin's face, but he said, "Is that arm broken, Gwaine?"

"Probably," Gwaine teased, repeating Merlin's earlier response to Arthur's question.

"May I heal it?" Merlin said.

Gwaine and Arthur said, "No!" simultaneously. Gwaine stood to take himself out of Merlin's reach, just in case. The sorcerer blinked up at him in confusion.

"But I could –" he began.

Arthur cut him off. "Could you knit that bone back together, then stand up and walk to the entrance of the labyrinth?"

"Oh." Merlin considered, then offered an apologetic grin. "Probably not."

"Here." Arthur gave him the last of the rations. "Eat this, then we'll get going." The boy-sorcerer bent obediently to the meal, Arthur's keen eye on him to make sure he took in every crumb.

These two, Gwaine thought. Arthur had something in mind, and it never occurred to Merlin to question. That kind of loyalty that was idiocy, that was nobility, that was catching… he was part of it, now.

He was not looking forward to facing the wrath of Uther, or Cenred. He was fairly sure they would find it impossible to leave the maze unless two of them died. But if that meant sitting next to the stone pillars and slowly starving with these two, or if it meant the kings' guard shot them full of arrows to see who would die first, or what, he held to what he'd told the prince the previous night.

He wouldn't have missed this for the world.

…..*….. …..*… …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They rested again as the sun hovered at the midmorning mark.

"Are you sure you won't let me –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur snapped, more rudely than he'd intended, and tried for patience as he repeated himself. "It's not broken, just twisted. Yes it hurts but I can walk. And frankly," he raised a stern eyebrow at his sorcerer, where he was collapsed flat on his back on the muddy path, "I'd rather deal with the limp than carry you or wait for you to regain consciousness."

"Again," Gwaine murmured. The newly-knighted warrior sat on his heels between them, not fully resting. Arthur wondered whether it was due to habitual wariness, because he didn't need the rest, or because he was on edge about the coming confrontation.

"_Again_," Arthur repeated, with emphasis. "I will need you when we reach the entrance, Merlin. I have to make sure that I talk to Uther, that he listens to me…" What Arthur planned, it was very close to open rebellion, and that was something that was punishable by death. "I will not allow Uther to try to kill either of you –"

"We fight?" Gwaine said with some surprise.

"We defend ourselves," Arthur corrected. "The knights of Camelot will be reluctant, but they will have to obey their king, if Uther orders them to attack us. I have no idea what Cenred will try to do."

"He probably knows she's dead," Gwaine mused. "Arthur – what do you think she was trying to do at the end there, after Merlin threw her into the tree?"

Merlin raised his head to look at Arthur in shock. "You mean - I didn't kill her? What happened?"

"She said a spell," Arthur answered. "I thought it was to heal herself, or give herself more energy, or something. Merlin, calm down – she's dead, obviously, and we're fine." _More or less_.

Merlin relaxed back onto the ground, and put his wrist over his eyes to shade them. "What spell?" he said expressionlessly.

Gwaine tried to duplicate Morgause's words, "Ik baby-odd thinny something ."

Arthur added, "Cunning quelling."

Merlin was silent a moment, then said, "_Ic bebiode thine cyning cwellan?"_

"That's the one," Gwaine confirmed. Merlin hummed thoughtfully.

"Well?" Arthur said.

"If I'm right about what she tried to do," Merlin said, without moving his arm from his face, "we won't have to worry about Cenred, when we get out of here."

"Don't suppose we can talk you into explaining, mate?" Gwaine asked cheerfully, and Merlin grinned without looking at either of them.

"There's still Anhora," Arthur said. "It's his labyrinth, no matter what Uther says. If he decides we have to fight it out –"

"Don't worry about Anhora, either," Merlin said, but Arthur noticed that his smile had slipped away.

"You know something we don't?" Arthur said, daring Merlin with his tone to say something sarcastic like, _I know _many_ things you don't_.

"He woke me this morning," Merlin said. "Told me to come to the entrance."

"Did he say anything about us?" Gwaine questioned.

"You mean, does he know there are three of us still left?" Merlin nodded against the ground. "He knows."

Arthur rolled to his hands and knees, stood on his good leg. "Come, then," he said to the two of them. Gwaine straightened, and each of the warriors gave a hand to help the sorcerer to his feet. "Lead on, Merlin."

It was, Arthur realized with a chuckle of irony to himself, something he hadn't considered, when they'd entered the arena – two days ago, was it really only two days ago? He'd gone in with a hunter's mindset, not an explorer's. They had not needed to last a week, after all, they had not needed to worry about _getting lost_. But without Merlin's uncanny awareness of the pattern of the labyrinth, they might have wandered two more days before finding their way out.

They hadn't been told anything about a rescue for the last survivor. Maybe the labyrinth itself was supposed to function as an opponent. One last enemy to escape.

Merlin never faltered, never backtracked. Even when the route looped around on itself, he seemed to anticipate the next turn or corner or choice of avenues at an intersection. It was as if he was as familiar with this maze as he was with the corridors and stairs and wings and towers of the citadel of Camelot.

It was close to noon when he stopped just short of a turn in the hedge and looked at them over his shoulder. "The entrance is just here," he said softly.

Arthur took a deep breath, sizing them up, his little army. Ready to follow him one more time, ready to rebel against Uther Pendragon. Punishable by death, he thought. Filthy, injured, exhausted. Broken, bruised – poisoned, enchanted – cut and scratched – by all the gods, _victorious_.

"On me," he said to them, and walked around the corner – slowly, so he could hide the limp, head high. Behind him he caught a glimpse of Gwaine letting his injured right arm drop from the cradle of his left arm to rest on the hilt of his sword.

They were waiting, the members of the cavalcade. Uther at the front in full royal regalia, crown and dragon-embroidered cloak, fists on his hips and frown on his face. Percival and Leon in the ranks of the red-cloaked guards, Gaius among the handful of nobles and Cenred's guests. Anhora alone to the side with his odd antler-topped staff, bleached of color like his hair, robe and mantle.

Arthur stopped just short of the stone columns. He couldn't see the enchanted veil that was meant to keep them inside the maze until the contest was decided, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. His heart was pounding. He had to hit just the right nuance between the extremes of arrogance and subservience. He had to win the lives of his two companions from the king, without unnecessarily antagonizing him.

He'd been wrong about the last enemy. It wasn't the Labyrinth of Gedref. It was Uther Pendragon.

The king growled, "You dare to oppose me –"

Anhora called clearly, "Come forth, young master. Come forth, courage, and bring your strength and magic as well. Come forth, Prince Arthur of Camelot."

Arthur stepped between the stone columns, glanced back to be sure Gwaine and Merlin were able to pass out of the maze as well. Merlin was composed, but Gwaine sighed in relief as they put the columns behind them, assessing in a moment what the potential threat might be from those present.

Uther rounded on Anhora. "We had an agreement, sorcerer," he hissed. "One week – a fight to the death – one winner." The other men present waited in a hush of silence, the tension like a sharp edge through the clearing.

"You will find," the labyrinth's keeper said mildly, "that you contracted your ten champions to fight until the last enemy was vanquished, and the one who is worthy to rule the land is clearly determined." He gestured to Arthur and his two friends. "I see no enemies. I see an unmistakable victor, voluntarily linked with two of his most loyal subjects."

"My lord," Arthur said, so that all present could hear him, hear his respect for his sovereign, and his determination, both. "Merlin swore his life to me a year ago in the arena. Since then – and especially during the last two days – he has fully demonstrated the depth of his commitment. To serve and protect, he said. To the last drop of blood, the last breath of life, the last light of magic." And how close a thing it had been, too… He put his hand on Gwaine's shoulder, pulling him forward a step, without breaking eye contact with the king. "This man risked his life to help us, protect us – he fought by my side with honor, and swore an oath of loyalty and service. I have knighted him for his bravery and –"

"Oh, no you have not," Uther declared. "That is another thing we will not –"

"You cannot undo what has been done," Anhora said calmly.

"I am king," Uther said. "Watch me." He turned and signaled to Leon at the head of the ranks of knights.

Behind him, Arthur heard Merlin draw in a quiet preparatory breath. Gwaine pulled two inches of sword from its sheath, even with his injured arm.

"Beware, Uther Pendragon," Anhora said sharply. "If you seek to have these men killed, you violate your contract. You will unleash a curse and Camelot will suffer greatly."

Uther scowled. "If you put a curse on Camelot, you will lift it or you will pay with your life."

"Consider your counterpart, great king," Anhora said, moving to the side.

Behind him, for the first time since they'd left the labyrinth, Arthur saw Cenred. Laid out on the stone table where they'd signed the blood-contract, eyes closed, hands clasped over the hilt of the bared sword on his chest.

"I _thought_ so," Merlin whispered, stepping up beside Arthur.

"Cenred made an agreement with the witch Morgause," Anhora continued. "A blood-oath contract. His life force was hers to take should her own be seriously threatened in the contest. Once entered into, these contracts cannot be broken without consequence. If you seek the lives of those loyal to the victor, your proclaimed heir, you will reap the curse on your land and people without any interference from me."

Arthur held his breath. He'd made his decision to face Uther for the lives of his friends ready to step down from the inheritance he'd won, ready to face execution with them, and now it seemed it wasn't to be his to convince the king. He found he didn't mind this last-minute rescue from the outside at all. Let someone else stand up to Uther, and if it was the mysterious powerful sorcerer who commanded the grounds for the game, so much the better.

Uther searched the faces of the crowd behind him, looked to the knights, then spun to approach Arthur.

Merlin bowed immediately - his sorcerer had fast developed a talent for respectfully avoiding Uther's attention. Gwaine was only a moment behind him, and Arthur gave the brief obeisance that was appropriate from the heir to the king. No less, but no more. "Sire," Arthur said softly, "you have two kingdoms to content you. May I not have two men?"

"This changes nothing!" Uther hissed. "This one is still your slave –" Gwaine jerked in surprise, but Uther was clearly pointing to the sorcerer. "And this one will serve in the guard when you have no need of him. Title and rank will not be his until they are yours. Understood?"

He was already turning away as Arthur repeated, "Understood." Gwaine straightened with a questioning look. "You will train with the guards for now. When I ascend the throne," Arthur gave him an arch smile, "then you may be known as Sir Gwaine."

The dark-haired warrior gave Arthur his devilish grin. "Well, it's better than a kick in the teeth."

Arthur turned as Leon appeared at his elbow to congratulate him, noticed Percival reaching out his hand to Gwaine. _Couldn't be prouder_, Leon said, as Gaius took Merlin in his arms – a rare gesture for the old physician – and the young sorcerer leaned his forehead on his mentor's shoulder to absorb the comfort. _Look forward to_ – Leon continued. As Arthur's eyes fell upon Anhora, who watched Merlin with an odd look, sharp yet gentle – the look of a hawk for its young.

Then the gaze of the labyrinth's keeper shifted back to Arthur. And the old sorcerer bowed to the young prince.

**A/N: Spell from ep.3.1 "The Tears of Uther Pendragon", 3.13 "The Coming of Arthur." Dialogue from ep.1.11 "The Labyrinth of Gedref".**

**And now, I will be accepting apologies from everyone who thought I'd be cruel enough to kill Gwaine off… *grins widely* **

**And to everyone who guessed this conclusion, in part or in whole, I hope you enjoyed it even if it wasn't a surprise… on to part 3!**


	21. Late

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 1: Late**

Merlin's boot slipped on a loose stone and he skidded, cursing, down the trail in a shower of pebbles and dirt. The guard leaped to his feet, alerted by the commotion, and advanced on Merlin, sprawled at the foot of the path coming down the hill.

"Hells," Merlin coughed, and sneezed, and took the guard's hand.

"Are you all right, m'lord?" the guard asked respectfully, as Merlin brushed off his banquet-ready finery.

"Just Merlin," he reminded the guard – who was older than he by several years. "How is he?"

The guard shrugged. "The same I guess? I don't know – he never talks to me." The man didn't look like he knew whether to be grateful or disappointed.

Merlin grunted sympathetically and took the offered torch, passing the guard as he entered the cave. He drew his cloak more tightly around him as he moved through the passageway into the main cavern – cold and damp as most caves were. "Hello?" he called as he came out of the passageway onto the ledge, lifting the torch and looking around – the torchlight only showed a small sphere of space clearly. Nothing. He tried again, the words coming naturally to him after so long, "_O drakon, e male so –"_

"There is no need for that."

Pebbles shifted. Rocks clacked together. Talons scratched across the stony floor. A vast shadow opened blazing yellow eyes on Merlin, and the great dragon stretched wings and limbs wearily before settling into a more comfortable position.

"Ah, young warlock," he said in a deep, rasping voice. "I thought I might see you today, but I had almost given up on you." Merlin fitted the torch into the bracket on the wall, and seated himself on his customary boulder, clasping his hands around one knee. "Your mother visited earlier," the dragon added.

"Yes, she told me she was going to," Merlin said. "Did she try to persuade you to move out of this cave again?"

"Yes, she did." A chuckle rumbled through the mighty chest. "Hunith is a very caring woman. I am free to come and go as I choose now, thanks to the young king, but this cave has become my home, young warlock, and I am very old. I will not make another." Merlin blinked against a pricking in his eyes. "Why have you come?" the dragon asked.

"You know why, Kilgarrah," he said. "The same reason my mother came this morning."

This day marked one year's passage since Balinor the Dragonlord had fallen in the arena of the Labyrinth of Gedref, protecting his son with his life. The great dragon was a link to the husband and father still beloved and always missed. "Did you call my father _young warlock_ when you first knew him?" he added, trying to introduce a note of humor. He could never hear enough about his father from the dragon, but Kilgarrah grew weary of reminiscing for its own sake, preferring to instruct Merlin on dragonlore during these visits. And to hint cryptically at destinies and prophecies, of course.

"I called your father Balinor, young warlock," Kilgarrah said with irony in his deep voice. "I called him by name. As I would you, if you would permit me, Em-"

"Stop it," Merlin said, irritated. "_Young warlock_ is fine, if you won't say _Merlin_."

The dragon shifted, lowering its head so that its breath puffed over Merlin, sulfury but not unpleasant, and the yellow eyes were large and keen. "Why do you question your identity?" he asked.

"I know exactly who I am," Merlin said shortly. "I'm a farm boy with a little power and a spellbook, and a generous king for a best friend, not some legendary sorcerer. But I didn't come here to talk about me. My father -"

"Your reticence does you credit," Kilgarrah said, not to be dissuaded from his topic of choice. Merlin sighed. "If one were eager to fulfill the destiny of Emrys and thrilled to possess such great power, the land would shudder in grave foreboding. Tell me something, kin of my spirit, do you doubt your king?"

"Never!" Merlin said immediately, putting his foot down. "It's only been a month since the coronation, but everyone says –"

"Then why do you doubt yourself?" Kilgarrah interrupted, kneading the projection of rock he reclined on with his claws, causing trickles of dust to patter down to the cavern floor.

"How could I be – Emrys?" Merlin scoffed. "The greatest sorcerer of all time – _guiding_ the king?"

"You stand with him, do you not?" The dragon blinked. "You would give your life for him, would you not?"

"Yes, of course I do – I would," Merlin answered.

"Two years ago he was anointed heir of Camelot – due in no small part to your protection of him in the arena," Kilgarrah continued. "Last year he earned the union of two of the five kingdoms – again, with your aid. You could have chosen the throne for yourself – you could have wiped the two kings from the earth with one thought… and that would have been a severe miscarriage of destiny. The time of Albion is upon us, and you face what may be your greatest challenge yet, young warlock. You must open your eyes and recognize this, before it is too late."

"Well, even if Arthur is the once and future king, even if he does unite Albion," Merlin objected, "that doesn't inevitably make me Emrys."

"You are quite correct," the dragon said after a moment. "But you chose that path, when you tied your fate to that of Arthur's in the amphitheatre of Camelot. When you connected your souls in the Labyrinth of Gedref."

Merlin cringed. He hadn't been able to lift the spell that had allowed him to find Arthur in the maze, but he hadn't tried very hard, either. Arthur didn't seem to notice it, and it didn't hurt anything. Made it easier to find his friend if he was in a hurry with a message, actually. But he didn't know anyone else knew of the connection he'd unconsciously forged. "But –" he said.

"Prophecies are rarely fulfilled by those intending to do so," Kilgarrah observed. "Only in retrospect does the fulfillment become clear."

"But even if Arthur is the once and future king, someone else could be Emrys, couldn't they? I mean, what if I got killed or something?"

"Merlin." There was a compassion in Kilgarrah's tone as unusual for the cold-blooded creature as the use of the sorcerer's birth name. "Do you really believe Arthur would take another sorcerer to his side and to his heart, as he has done with you?"

"I… If something happened to me, he should find another sorcerer to watch his back," Merlin said stubbornly. "He needs someone with magic protecting him."

"You are right." Another rumble of amusement started in the dragon's chest, puffed out of his nostrils, the smell of fire ruffling Merlin's hair. "But the two of you are two sides of one coin. He needs you and you need him, and neither one of you can change that, now."

_What if Arthur never unites Albion?_ Merlin wondered. Would that mean another child would be born to that destiny? Another warlock brought into the world and raised to be the greatest? There had been unrest in the neighboring kingdoms in the last month, since Uther's death and Arthur's coronation, but Arthur had no thirst for conquest, no ambition for the subjugation of foreign powers and lands.

"Emrys, I –"

"Just Merlin," he interrupted, sighing. "Kilgarrah – I should go. There's the banquet to attend, and … I shouldn't be too late."

"No," Kilgarrah said, pulling back. "You should not be _too late_."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As far as Gwaine was concerned, it was a victory feast. His own victory feast, at least in part. And he was late. Not because he'd been busy, no, Arthur – _King_ Arthur, he corrected himself with a grin – had very generously given him a day off from knightly duties and training. That's why he was late. With all day on his hands, and Merlin disappeared somewhere, he'd spent some time – _all day_, his conscience whispered, giggling slightly - in the tavern.

He turned into the corridor leading to the great hall, struggling with the fastening on his red ceremonial knights' cape. Blast the thing – they did get in the way, as Leon and Percival had both warned him. Someone else was late, too, hurrying down the corridor fifteen yards ahead of him. He recognized the gawky stride and shaggy black hair of Camelot's favorite sorcerer, and was about to call out to Merlin, when an arm shot out of an alcove and snatched Merlin from sight.

All his senses on high alert – and the faint pleasant buzz that the tavern-ale gave him doused by a cold bucketful of dread for his friend's safety – Gwaine stepped close to the wall, checking the rear for further possible assailants before skulking closer to the alcove, hand on the hilt of his sword.

He heard soft voices before he saw anyone. There was tension in Merlin's tone – but he recognized the other voice a moment later and relaxed, grinning.

"You were waiting for me?" Merlin said softly. "Are you jealous, then?"

"Jealous?" the female voice scoffed. "Of a great scaly lizard? I'm not jealous, it's just that you smell… like… dirt… and ash… and sulfur." The murmur grew softer, and ended with a breathless giggle. "Em-"

"_Merlin_," Merlin mumbled insistently.

Gwaine's grin widened at other sounds that emerged from the hiding place. He wrestled with the temptation – for a brief moment – then gave in and stepped into view.

"Hey, there, you two," he said lazily.

Freya squeaked and hid her blush against Merlin's chest, her hand leaving his neck to pull the fabric of his shirt over her glowing cheek, the druid symbol tattooed on her wrist visible as her sleeve was pushed up. Merlin gave Gwaine a sheepishly bright-eyed smile, but didn't release her waist.

"You know this banquet is meant for the three of us, right?" Gwaine said. "If you and I –" he pointed from Merlin to himself – "are both missing for too much longer, Arthur's going to send out a patrol." He paused, then added, because he knew it irked the young sorcerer, "_Lord_ Merlin."

Merlin grimaced. "We're coming," he said, then mocked Gwaine in the same tone the knight had used, "_Sir_ Gwaine."

The three of them entered the banquet hall together, Gwaine heading to the right for the knights' table, while Merlin and Freya took the aisle on the left. Freya stopped to engage in conversation with her cousin, Lady Guinevere, the girl Arthur had his eye on for queen – whenever he'd work up the nerve to ask her.

"I swear," he said to Percival as he straddled the bench at his place. "If he doesn't ask her to marry him soon, _I _will."

"Good day at the tavern?" Percival inquired pleasantly, not bothering to ask Gwaine for clarification on the odd greeting.

He grunted. "I have got to look up the laws regarding the ration of alcohol to water allowed in public establishments," he said. "And they were out of –" the words died on his tongue.

Merlin had gotten only a few steps beyond Freya before Hunith met him, the lanky sorcerer bending down for the tight embrace of his mother. Gwaine could see Hunith's shoulders heave with sobs as she held her son, and a wave of guilt swept over him – he had managed to forget that this was the anniversary of significant loss for his friend, not just the simple celebration of survival it was for him.

He wished he'd given Merlin a few more minutes in the alcove, if it helped to put a smile on his face. That was probably Freya's thought as well, Gwaine thought with a snicker, and a sigh.

As Merlin leaned back to look into Hunith's face and speak seriously, Gwaine glanced up to Arthur, who still looked faintly uncomfortable on Uther's central throne-like chair. To his left, his mother, fair-haired and pale but smiling happily, leaned over to speak to Geoffrey, the councilman who also oversaw the library. The chair to Arthur's right was empty, waiting for Merlin. Arthur drummed his fingers impatiently, then leaned to question Gaius, in the seat next to the empty one. The old physician glanced up at the king's question, gestured down the aisle toward the sorcerer and his mother. Arthur saw them and nodded, as one of the palace message-bearers slipped in between them, laying a note on the table at Arthur's right hand.

Leon and Percival were discussing the day's training around Gwaine. "I couldn't believe he'd attempt such a foolish maneuver," Leon was saying.

Percival made a noncommittal noise. "Well, you have to admit that Guinevere's brother –"

"Arthur didn't knight the man solely for that," Gwaine reminded them, watching Arthur read the note, re-read it, then reach to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Says the man who's been a knight for a month," Leon said.

Gwaine looked over at Merlin as the sorcerer caught sight of the king's reaction as well, and spoke a few words of excuse to his mother, moving her to the side with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We've all seen the potential in Elyan that the king sees…"

Merlin hurried around the corner of the high table to reach Arthur, perching sideways on his seat to lean close and question the king. Arthur flicked his fingers in response, and Merlin picked up the note to scan it.

He'd seen Merlin endure the skepticism and censure of the council, and to a lesser extent the other members of the court with good humor. He'd seen him resign himself to the uncomfortable title and clothes, seen him stand up to Arthur on some obscure detail of a law or treaty, firm and deferential in the face of Arthur's rare temper – then joke freely with the king the very next minute. He'd seen both of them deep in worried conference over the reports of raiders and rumors of turmoil in other lands.

From across the room, Gwaine could see the sorcerer's lips tighten. That wasn't a good sign.

_Ah, hells_, he thought. _What now_?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Normally Arthur enjoyed a ride through Camelot's countryside in the sunlight. As a boy, his father had taken him on many such outings. As a young man, he'd had less time for it, but as crown prince he'd taken pleasure in weekly hunts, whether they found game or not. This was, he realized, the first time he'd been more than an hour from the city, the whole month he'd been king.

He should have been enjoying the warm sun and the brisk breeze. But not today.

He'd been warned. It was inevitable, really, the trying and testing of a new king – by his own court, by his people, by the rulers of surrounding kingdoms – and more so for an heir not of the bloodline or raised to the throne.

For a month he'd changed nothing, aside from one or two mildly divergent interpretations of a law or custom. There wasn't much to change, actually, aside from his irrational prejudices and overly harsh applications of consequences for lawbreakers, Uther had ruled a fair kingdom. The biggest change he'd made was to officially recognize Merlin's status as Dragonlord, and the loudest voice of protest to that was the sorcerer himself. The fact of the abilities to call, control, and speak to dragons was indisputable, especially after Kilgarrah's sole public flight of freedom – Merlin's way of mourning Uther's death last month. The term _dragonlord_ was self-explanatory, after all, and once the title _Lord_ had been added to Merlin's name, giving him a seat on the council had been child's play. As it had been his only change to the council, none of the other members had complained, much.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at his friend. Mostly Merlin could be persuaded to dress in a more courtly fashion for meetings – for the couple of royal dignitaries' visits they'd had, the banquet two nights ago. But while Arthur and the knights rode in chainmail and Camelot red, Merlin was inconspicuous in his regular garb – brown trousers and jacket over blue shirt. He could have been mistaken for one of the servants in the rear of the train. Except he rode by Arthur's side.

Merlin glanced up, aware of Arthur's gaze, and the tension eased as he gave him a reassuring smile. No words were necessary. They'd already spent hours discussing the invitation – brief to the point of being terse – and there was no more to be said until more information was given them.

He leaned forward in the saddle as they climbed the last rise, and reined in a moment to take in the scene below. A large central pavilion was already erected. To three of the four points of the compass individual campsites were going up, servants scurrying back and forth, horse-handlers seeing to the picket lines, a few fighting men sparring in different locations.

It looked like Camelot was the latecomer to the party.

He took a deep breath and guided his mount down the hillside, holding a leisurely pace. Fifty yards out, they were met by a herald bearing Odin's wolf's-head on a maroon tunic.

"My lord," the herald said, bowing. "Their majesties are partaking of a light repast in the pavilion of meeting, along with their court sorcerers, if you would care to join them. I am prepared to show the remainder of your entourage an optimal setting for your encampment."

"You have my thanks," Arthur returned, signaling to his knights. Percival and Elyan would see to establishing the camp, while Gwaine continued on with Merlin and Arthur.

Reaching the pavilion, they dismounted, handing their reins to Gwaine, and Arthur led Merlin into the pavilion. Once inside, he removed his riding gloves, folded them, and tucked them through his belt, to give himself a moment to observe the other three monarchs of the five kingdoms of Albion. Five kingdoms, it was still said, though Camelot had controlled two for the past year, since the contest in the labyrinth.

There was Odin, unmistakable in the wolf's-head on maroon, a man with brown hair and a gray beard and a deceptively mild expression. There was a young man at his elbow, a highly nervous boy no older than Merlin, with round eyes set close together that never left the rugs covering the ground of the tent, and ears that stuck out. There was Alined, his gray hair short, his smirk in place on his deeply lined face. A middle-aged man with striped trousers and a widow's peak raised his eyebrows as he whispered in Alined's ear.

And there was Annis, an attractive woman for her age, with long red-brown hair held in place with a twined circlet, wearing a fur-lined mantle and a leather hauberk over a deep blue dress. She stood in one corner in deep discussion with another woman, dressed in black, with long black hair loose down her back. This woman, possibly Annis' court sorceress, looked over her shoulder to glare at Arthur as soon as he entered the pavilion.

An attendant brought a goblet of wine on a tray to offer to Arthur, who accepted it, and held it to the side. Eyes were drawn to the pair as Merlin stepped forward to touch the goblet lightly, and Arthur watched them watching his court sorcerer check for poison. He'd seen Merlin do it countless times – and even argued with him over it once when a visiting noble took offense – the blue eyes flashing briefly to gold. Merlin released the goblet; Arthur knew it was safe to drink, and did so.

"Greetings, King Arthur," Annis said, with no small amount of condescension. "And _this_ is your infamous court sorcerer. I must say, I expected someone … different." She glanced over her shoulder toward Alined and his sorcerer, and added sarcastically, "But, so long as he can breathe fire and conjure butterflies, I guess he'll do." The sorceress beside her glared disdain.

Merlin said clearly, "Of course, my lady. I can juggle, as well."

Annis was taken aback, but only for a moment. "I look forward to seeing a performance, someday."

"We four have gathered," Odin began, his right as the oldest ranking male present, "to air our grievances and attempt a solution. Unless anyone has objections, I say we dispense with formalities and niceties, and allow ourselves blunt honesty today, as is compatible with this open-air forum." No one said anything. "I am ambitious. I make no secret of that or apology for it. I bear accusation against Arthur of Camelot for the death of my son in a sponsored tournament last year. I would see my land expanded and Arthur dead. That is all."

Dead silence. Almost every eye was on Arthur for his reaction, but he maintained a respectful silence. It was not, after all, his turn to speak, and he'd only hurt his credibility and spark the very conflict he was there to prevent if he tried to defend himself at this juncture.

"I seek not to change borders agreed on long ago," Queen Annis spoke up. "I desire peace in my lands no matter how extensive or restricted they may be. My complaints are two-fold – I hold Camelot responsible for the murder of my husband three years ago. And I call on King Alined to answer for the depredations of the Saxon renegades he has allowed a port of landing."

Ah. That was a detail the scouts hadn't managed to verify. Good to know.

Alined spread his hands, giving them an insincere and unapologetic smile. "As Odin, I also am ambitious – for the good of my kingdom. We seek to expand, to grow. I look not on the Saxon as a threat. We have a treaty with them that allows ingress so long as our lands and people are left in peace."

Annis looked mad enough to spit nails. Odin looked like he was considering how to turn the information to his advantage. Arthur set his goblet down firmly on the table in front of him. _My turn_. He took a deep breath, taking courage from the silent support of his friend and sorcerer.

"My lord," he said, inclining his head to Odin. "King Rodor of Nemeth has long been allied with Camelot, and has officially recognized myself as Uther Pendragon's heir and high king over that province. They have sent for our aid and support to fight the encroachment of your men upon their lands. They wish only to maintain the borders established of old peaceably, and we will honor our accord with Nemeth to the fullest extent. As to your son, he issued a challenge in keeping with the rules of the tournament, and his death was a tragic accident I would have prevented if I could. I had no quarrel with him; I asked him to withdraw." He took a deep breath and went on; dealing with these monarchs was little different, after all, than dealing with Uther – and he'd gotten fairly good at that. "You kill me, my lord, and you will have all of Camelot to answer to."

"Camelot is nothing without it's king," Odin scoffed.

"Then you don't know Camelot," Arthur said.

Beside him, Merlin spoke up. He didn't often, but when he did, people found themselves paying attention. "We will hunt you." His voice was matter-of-fact, quiet and calm, but Arthur heard_ I_ when Merlin said _We_. "We will find you. And we will not rest until we're done."

"You may want to reconsider your quest for Arthur's blood," Annis remarked off-handedly. "I have it on good authority that Uther fell prey to a curse when he attempted an assassination of one of Arthur's men, and that is what struck him down and caused his death."

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to control his surprise. Gaius had said it was something to do with Uther's heart. Merlin stood perfectly still, his face revealing nothing. Annis' sorceress tossed her head.

"I came here to for a truce, Odin," Arthur said. "To give the people hope for the future." He shifted his weight and gave Queen Annis a somewhat more courtly salutation. "Caerleon ventured illegally more than once upon lands ruled by Camelot, as I learned of it. He seized the village of Stonedown upon our western border, and was captured soon afterward. He was given a chance to treat, to renew the peace that had been established between Uther and his father, and he refused."

"He refused and he was murdered," Annis said sharply.

"I am sorry –" Arthur began, but she cut him off.

"Sorry does not bring back my husband. Sorry does not give my people back their king."

"I realize that. I know there's nothing I can do to repair that loss." Arthur waited a moment more out of courtesy as the queen pressed her lips together. "I share your concern over the Saxon threat. We in Camelot have been increasingly troubled over the reports of raiding on our land and our people, and believe me, my Lord Alined, when I say that Camelot will permit it no longer. If you have formed an agreement with the Saxons, you must answer for their actions. Let them follow the laws of the lands they trespass upon, or let them stay inside your territories – or you may find war on your hands."

Alined snorted. "Camelot cannot fight a war on three fronts at once."

Arthur opened his mouth to warn them of the power of the sorcerer at his side – he was sure Merlin was quite capable of facing an army himself, if he had to – then stopped. It was not his power to threaten, after all. Nor did he want to achieve peace by intimidation.

"I believe you will find Camelot well able to protect her own," he said instead, evenly, "be it on one front or three. However, I came not to find enemies or to declare war, but to seek peace, and treat with allies."

"I echo the sentiment," Annis said resolutely, eyeing the kings. "Therefore, I propose a solution I hope your majesties will be amenable to." She paused as they waited expectantly, then sauntered around the edge of the thick carpet laid out over the ground, and stopped at arm's-reach from Arthur.

"We have before us a personification of the argument I wish to make," she continued. "Uther was a man restricted by his short-sightedness and not burdened with an excess of intelligence. However, he gambled upon a bold idea and won – twice over. There is in Arthur Pendragon the promise of a great king, and it diminishes us not at all to admit it. Cenred chose to challenge Camelot – and here, again, is the result. The young king rules two kingdoms."

"By all reports, Arthur's prize was not limited to the crowns and land," Odin growled, and Arthur realized that everyone's gaze had gone to Merlin.

"Indeed," Alined simpered.

"What I propose is simple," Annis continued. "A third challenge. Assemble a team, to strive for a goal. The winning team achieves an unchallenged victory for their monarch. And we anoint a high ruler over Albion."

**A/N: Some dialogue from ep.2.2 "The Once and Future Queen", 4.5 "His Father's Son" and 5.4 "Another's Sorrow."**


	22. Crystal Secrets

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 2: Crystal Secrets**

Gwaine knew the risk of eavesdropping was someone emerging from the alcove, or room – or tent – swiftly and unexpectedly, resulting in the discovery of said eavesdropper. He was lucky it was only Arthur and Merlin.

Arthur was furious. Gwaine, having heard the complaints of the other royals as well as the proposal, wasn't surprised. Arthur had kept his temper far better than Gwaine would've. The king brushed past him and the horses, stalking toward Camelot's campsite on foot. The physical exertion, Gwaine knew from experience, would be good for letting off steam.

Merlin's expression, by contrast, was more thoughtful, melancholy even, and he made no effort to keep up with Arthur's pace, but sauntered along at Gwaine's side. Neither said anything. Merlin had seen that Gwaine was too close to the tent flap for innocent loitering. And after a year of serving the same man together, they could often tell what the other was thinking.

Gwaine handed the three horses off to an eager Elyan, and followed Merlin into the tent in time to see Arthur hurl a water pitcher across the space – it froze in midair as soon as Merlin saw it.

"Merlin!" Arthur growled without turning to look at them. "The purpose of throwing something is to relieve feelings with a satisfying smash or clatter." He whirled around, scowling.

Gwaine would have sworn that a little secretive smile twitched at the corners of the sorcerer's solemnity. The pitcher abruptly resumed its flight, to thump softly into the material of the tent wall and roll to the ground. They all three watched it settle soundlessly on the grass.

Gwaine couldn't help snickering, and Merlin allowed the small smile to grow. Arthur sighed, slumping down into a low-backed camp chair. "What do you know about a curse on Uther?" the young king demanded. "And why is it that Annis would know of such things while I do not?"

Merlin stood pale and still. "Are you asking if I've committed regicide, Arthur?" he said.

"_Hells_, Merlin – _no_, I'm not asking if you're a murderer!" Arthur sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just – Gaius told me it was his _heart_!"

"He told _me_ it was his heart," Merlin said stiffly. "If you recall, Gaius wouldn't let either of us into the king's room that night." That night, Gwaine remembered, he'd been on duty in the lower town. He kept still, though the infrequent occasions when the two friends quarreled made him uneasy.

"I didn't think anything of it," Arthur said. "Just that – there was nothing we could do, after all, and neither of us was exactly close to the man. Gaius knew we didn't need to – say goodbye or mourn or – anything."

"If Uther died because of a curse, I would have known it," Merlin said slowly, the tension easing out of his body. "Gaius would have known it. He could have lied…"

"Why would he?" Arthur asked.

After a moment of silence, Gwaine cleared his throat. "Don't mean to be insulting," he said, "but if rumor had gotten out that Uther was cursed to death, our Merlin here would have been the prime suspect. Everyone knew Uther hated him and would have done anything to remove him from court."

"But I would never –" Merlin protested, but Arthur interrupted him.

"Ten to one that's what Annis thinks, at least."

Gwaine called the queen's words to mind. _Uther fell prey to a curse when he attempted an assassination of one of Arthur's men._ That resonated with another memory, a year-old memory of an old sorcerer warning Uther. "You know," he remarked, "the week before that was when we caught that assassin scaling the south tower." The other two looked at him blankly. "The south tower?" he prompted.

"I remember the incident, Gwaine," Arthur said. "I fail to grasp the significance – the assassin was nowhere near the king, and fell to his death just after he was discovered."

"Yeah, but – the south tower," Gwaine said. "The court physician's chambers are in the south tower. And Merlin's, at that time."

Merlin laughed suddenly. "You think the assassin was after me, not the king?" he scoffed. "Why on earth would anyone send an assassin after–" He stopped, and frowned.

"You remember what Anhora said?" Gwaine said to Arthur. "If Uther wanted to hurt us, he'd violate the contract and unleash a curse. I bet you Uther paid someone to kill Merlin and brought that curse on himself."

"Hm," Arthur said. "Well, I wouldn't have wished it on him, but never mess with a vengeful sorcerer, eh, Merlin?"

Merlin gave them a small smile. "The older ones can be quite unforgiving," he said, "grouchy, even."

"Kings are quite like sorcerers in that regard, then," Arthur said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Can you believe this? All over again?"

"What are you going to do?" Merlin asked, hoisting himself to a sitting position on the table and slouching over his knees. Gwaine remained standing by the door. If he took the position of a guard, Arthur might be less inclined to send him about other duties.

"If I refuse," Arthur said, "they may very well go ahead with this contest without Camelot – and we would face almost certain war. Each kingdom on its own is not strong enough to attack Camelot. But three of them united under Odin, or Annis, or Alined… But how can I agree?"

"Uther would have jumped at the chance," Merlin observed. "You're not Uther, but –"

"Doesn't look like you've got another choice," Gwaine filled in. "Not if you want to prevent war."

"What if Camelot enters this fool challenge and loses?" Arthur said, dropping his hand. "I would have subjected us to the rule of another."

"Maybe. But the other kingdoms would be allies of Camelot, then… no war."

"A united Albion." Gwaine hesitated. His friends were well aware of the prophecies, the rumors that had begun to whisper around. The idea made Arthur self-conscious and uncomfortable, and Merlin categorically refused to discuss the topic. "If you are meant to unite the five kingdoms, Arthur, this seems the best and easiest way of doing it."

"Best and easiest?" Arthur retorted, his voice rising.

Merlin said, "Kilgarrah told me the time of Albion is upon us. He said I – we – would face our greatest challenge yet." He looked and sounded downright unhappy. Gwaine was practically jumping out of his skin with excitement.

Arthur pushed himself up and began to pace. "I despise the idea," he said bluntly.

Gwaine understood, even if he didn't agree. The labyrinth had been brutal – poison, enchantment, ambush, not to mention constant fear, uncertainty, the questioning of oneself, of one's companions. The war of hope and despair in the heart. And Arthur and Merlin had endured two such arena games.

"There has been enough bloodshed," Gwaine offered. "Many hundreds of lives will be saved this way."

"You are king," Merlin said. "You are in a position to negotiate the rules, this time."

Arthur stared at the canvas wall as it rippled in a passing breeze, then shook his head and paced back. "You're right. Could you draw up a charter of conditions, Merlin?"

The sorcerer pushed off the table, summoning the camp chair even as he bent his knees to sit. The lid of the writing box on a larger trunk to one side flipped open, and ink, quill, and parchment soared to Merlin's hand. "Ready, sire," he said.

"First of all, anyone can enter," Arthur said, "but it must be as a volunteer." Merlin nodded his head in agreement.

Gwaine said feelingly, "Hear, hear."

Merlin cleared his throat before saying, "What else?"

"A fight to the death cannot be mandatory," Arthur continued, turning on his heel and striding the length of the rug. "Any member of a team should have the right to surrender and withdraw from the contest at any time and for any reason, as long as they do not return."

"Right," Merlin agreed, the quill scratching on the parchment. "Anything else?"

Arthur paused. "This is the proposed quest – that we enter the realm of the Fisher King and find the Golden Trident, spoken of in the legends of the Fallen Kings. Is there anything that occurs to either of you?"

"Perhaps the teams should be bound to obey the laws of the lands they cross," Merlin offered. "Fighting each other is one thing, but if this – race – is not confined to an arena, there should be restrictions on stealing from or hurting the people we may come into contact with."

"Yes – excellent. Write that down," Arthur said.

"A time limit?" Gwaine suggested. "I mean, it seems to me that it should start at once, so no unfair advantages can be prepared for." He wondered who would be chosen to go – they had brought only a dozen knights from Camelot.

The king scuffed his boot on the rug, then turned to look at Merlin. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Gwaine," he said.

"Arthur, I hope you know this, but…" Gwaine hesitated. The knights often discussed various issues between themselves, but Leon was usually the spokesperson for them. "There isn't a man among us who would not die for you. We made our pledge and we wear the Pendragon crest with honor. With you as the high king there will be freedom and justice across the five kingdoms for the first time in memory, and that is a goal any one of your knights would happily die to achieve."

Arthur's mouth twisted in a reluctant sideways smile. "I sometimes wonder if I deserve such loyalty, Gwaine," he said, leaning against the table beside Merlin's left elbow, and looked down as the sorcerer lifted his head. "Is there any other way out of this situation?" the king asked him.

"We must defend Camelot," Merlin answered, with more resignation than enthusiasm and Arthur nodded.

"Who will you choose, sire?" Gwaine asked. Arthur gave him a quizzical look, and Merlin twisted in the chair to face Gwaine. "I mean to say, if you call for volunteers of the men we brought with us, you're going to have every knight step forward. You'll have to choose three from among –" The king and the sorcerer exchanged a glance. Gwaine cursed and stepped forward involuntarily. "You're both going again, is that it?" he demanded. "Ever think where Camelot will be if _either_ of you gets killed? Isn't it someone else's turn?"

Arthur said mildly, "I won't ask another man to accept the risks while I reap the benefits. If I am worthy to be high king, it is an honor I must earn."

"And Merlin?" Gwaine said heatedly. It was a stupid question he knew better than to ask, but he was upset at the thought of his young friend facing this situation again.

Arthur smiled, resting his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Are _you_ going to keep him out of it? Because I am quite sure I cannot, and you know he only listens to my orders when it suits him."

Merlin ducked his head, giving Gwaine an impish grin over his shoulder. Gwaine sighed and rolled his eyes. "No one could keep him away, I guess," he said. "All right – that makes three of us, then."

There was faint surprise on Arthur's face – but too much astonishment would have been insulting. Merlin looked up at the king. "Don't pretend you hadn't already thought of that," he said.

"At the risk of giving you a big head…" Arthur told Gwaine, "There's no one else I would rather have." He added, "And if you ever tell that to one of your fellow knights, I'll not only deny it, but put you in the stocks for a week for causing dissension in the ranks."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sire," Gwaine promised, and couldn't keep back a grin of his own. A dangerous quest, a noble king striving for peace, a powerful sorcerer unleashed… wouldn't miss it for the world.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

One week. They hadn't even bothered to return to Camelot. Arthur had dispatched Elyan to bring the royal seal to Leon, his second-in-command while he was away, and Percival had been entrusted with a packet of letters to deliver to several individuals in Camelot. Just in case.

The other monarchs had remained as well, though none intended to enter the contest as Arthur was, and they had not mingled much after the initial meeting. The pavilion was to be the point of destination for the victors, after all. They waited for the trident.

Each team had been given a copy of the map, before being escorted by a contingent of guards representing all four kingdoms to different starting points several miles distant from the other teams. At daybreak Percival had bidden them farewell and good luck, and they had ridden out, Arthur shoulder to shoulder with Gwaine, arguing companionably over the best route, Merlin riding silently behind them.

"Speed and stealth, sire," Gwaine repeated. "Straight as an arrow, there and back." Arthur studied the obstacles between their position and the pass into the Perilous Lands, both geographical – and otherwise. Merlin had already begged off giving his opinion, and Arthur understood his reluctance. His own attitude toward the prophecies was ambivalent at best. If he was destined to do it, it would be done. If not, someone else would be the once and future king. But now, and here, he had to fight to keep the Camelot and the combined strength of the other three kingdoms from falling into any of the other three monarchs' hands.

"Any luck reaching Kilgarrah?" he asked Merlin over his shoulder.

"Maybe it's the distance," Merlin responded. The lack of energy in his sorcerer was a concern for Arthur, but then again, he was facing this challenge with grim determination, himself. It wasn't simply an adventure, a quest for glory or honor. There was far more at stake. "Of course, the old dragon could be asleep, or just being stubborn."

"Plenty of that going around," Gwaine remarked, and Arthur shot him a warning look.

"He gave your father information about the champions last year," Arthur said. "Such information might prove useful again."

Merlin didn't answer. Looking back, Arthur saw that his friend's eyes were closed, the reins slack on the mare's neck. He wondered if he should suggest that Merlin roar out that awful command and summons he'd heard only twice before – and it had sent shivers up his spine both times. He wondered what would happen if Merlin commanded Kilgarrah to come – and the old dragon was simply unable to. Would that call be painful for the old dragon? Or would it somehow instill in him the ability to obey? If so, would that power come from Merlin, or would it drain Kilgarrah's life force? He shook himself out of the pointless musing.

"Well, we've only three warriors to worry about," Arthur stated. "Annis' Southron Helios, and Odin's two – Jarl your favorite slave-trader –" Gwaine snarled; that particular revelation had almost started a fight right there in the pavilion – "and Julius, whose looks are too ordinary to be trusted. What was that he said to you, Merlin, when all the teams were assembled in the pavilion?"

"He said he'd studied dragonlore a long time. And he'd been anxious to meet me."

Arthur didn't like the sound of that. "I thought dragonlords were an obsessively close-mouthed lot – no offense intended."

Merlin hummed thoughtfully in agreement. Arthur went on, "What can you tell us about the magic-users?"

Merlin moved his mount up to Arthur's other side, so the three rode abreast. "I don't know anything about Alined's three women," he said, "except – I have this bad feeling…"

"What about the others, then?" Arthur said.

"That boy Odin has as a court sorcerer looks like a stiff wind would have him tucking his tail for home," Gwaine remarked.

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Merlin said quietly. "He has a focus of considerable power."

"A focus?" Arthur asked.

"An object, usually fairly small," Merlin explained. "A stone, an amulet. It's a – receptacle of magic. It amplifies the powers of its wielder, though it adds nothing to skill or control. Alator comes from the Catha druid tribe – I don't know much about them except they're the most violent of the druid clans, and therefore don't have much contact with their brethren. Morgana is – strong. And angry."

"That black-haired court sorceress?" Gwaine said. "The one who looks like she'd be happy spitting on Arthur's grave, if she could wear Merlin's guts for garters while she was doing it?"

"What about you, then?" Merlin said, leaning forward so he could see Gwaine past Arthur. "Whatever her grudge is, I do believe you're included."

"No," Gwaine disagreed. "She just couldn't keep her eyes off my pretty face. It's you two she hates."

They rode on, contentedly bickering. Arthur unrolled the map to check their location and heading one more time.

Then Merlin inexplicably jerked the reins of his horse, causing his mare to rear back on her hind legs – and she kept going. Merlin kicked his boot free of the stirrup and tried to leap clear, as a thousand pounds of horseflesh crashed down on him. Arthur had no moment to wonder - his own mount shrilled in pain as an arrow thudded into its neck.

Screams and war-cries erupted all around them, as Arthur leaped free of his dying mount, reaching for his sword. "Gwaine!" he called, pointing to Merlin's body, half-buried under the struggling mare, and the knight was by Merlin's side in an instant, tugging him free. Arthur glanced around and made a swift decision – too many of them, horses crippled, Merlin still dazed from his fall –

"Run!" he roared at them, and attacked the two bandits closest, his charge taking them off the road and down into a gorge the mercenaries had avoided in staging their ambush.

Arrows sang their thin song. Arthur led the headlong rush, glancing over his shoulder at Gwaine, shoving Merlin along until the sorcerer seemed to grasp the situation and sprinted alongside the knight.

"We should fight!" Gwaine panted.

Arthur didn't even slow. "We'll outrun them!" he called. They leaped down the ravine toward the valley, avoiding rocks and roots, finally ducking behind a twist to catch their breath. Gwaine leaned over his knees, while Merlin rested his back against the wall of earth. Arthur sheathed his sword, then stepped up on a rock to peer over the protruding roots back up the ravine.

"You all right?" he said softly to Merlin, who nodded breathlessly.

"Are they still after us?" the sorcerer gasped.

"We should fight," Gwaine repeated. "You and me with our swords, and Merlin with his magic."

Arthur shook his head. "Big picture, Gwaine. We don't need to be battling with this lot and healing wounds, not now. Besides," he grinned at Gwaine. "I told you we'd outrun them."

"You sure?" Gwaine said.

Whatever Arthur might have answered was interrupted by the appearance of three bandits at the top of the ravine, twenty feet back. They hollered, pointed, clearly flushing their prey from their hiding place for the rest of the pack.

"Come on, this way," Arthur said, crossing the ravine to scramble up the other side, digging fingers and toes into the mud to reach the top.

"Where are we going?" Gwaine called, as he and Merlin followed. Arthur turned, held a hand down for Merlin to grasp, and hauled him up.

"Trust me," Arthur ordered, taking off again at a tangent to the ravine, still heading downhill.

"Arthur!" Gwaine called. "What are you doing?" Arthur checked their rear – No one following. Yet. They slipped and slid down the steep hillside, ending in a second broad gulley.

"See?" Arthur said triumphantly. "Come on!" He was right. It had been this way his father had taken him, though they hadn't entered the valley. But if his memory served as he'd trained it to, the other end of the valley would set them right on their way toward the Perilous Lands. It wouldn't have been a route he'd chosen, not with the rumors and superstition, but it was better than a three-against-thirty brawl. Arthur in the lead rounded a corner and passed between two statues, four times as tall as a man, and faintly reminiscent of the figures in the amphitheatre. They faced each other across the head of the valley, swords unsheathed, points resting in the loam in front of them, opposite each other.

He heard Gwaine's boots on the earth behind him, then nothing. "Arthur," Gwaine said, and he turned.

Merlin stood at the entrance, not quite between the statues, knees bent and head up as he stared, wary as a wild animal, at the face of one statue. Then he twisted to view the other, a look of alarm on his face as if he half-expected the stone to come to life and speak to him.

"What is this place?" he blurted.

"The Valley of the Fallen Kings," Arthur told him, catching his breath. Gwaine's head swiveled so he could give Arthur a questioning look. The knight had heard of it, then, probably.

"Is it cursed?" Merlin said, his stance still betraying the utmost caution, his attention riveted by one, then the other statue, a note in his voice that made Arthur uneasy.

"No, of course not," he said quickly. Their other choice was to climb back uphill at the horde of brigands.

"Not unless you're superstitious," Gwaine added, frowning in concern at Arthur, then returned to take Merlin by his jacket sleeve, urge him past the silent statues.

"It is," Merlin said with absolute conviction and dread. Once past the statues at the head of the valley, he followed more willingly, but even Arthur was unnerved by the faces carved into the rock wall, seeming to peer through the moss and ivy.

"That's a myth," Gwaine said, now bringing up the rear. He sounded as if he would have been happy to convince himself, too.

"They'll never follow us in here," Arthur tossed over his shoulder. "They wouldn't dare. Trust me."

Merlin said, not quite under his breath, "If you say that one more time –"

A shout went up behind them, and Gwaine said, "Run!" Once again they pelted down the valley, over boulders and boggy patches, Arthur frantically searching for any other option. He leaped up on a high boulder to scout the ground ahead for an instant – and pain exploded in his back, between his spine and shoulder-blade, knocking him face-down off the rock. He struggled to draw breath, and Merlin was beside him in an instant.

"What was that?" he said thickly to Merlin.

"An arrow," Merlin told him in a calm dreadful voice. He might have been saying, _I warned you so._

He didn't like it when his friend sounded like that, so he tried to make a joke. "Oh, good. For a moment I thought it was something terrible." His vision darkened, but he retained enough awareness to realize that Gwaine was lifting him over his shoulder, each touch and movement sending fiery flickers of pain out from his shoulder.

"Keep going, Merlin," Gwaine grunted. "You can tend him later." Arthur wanted to say something flippant and witty about Merlin washing his hands first, but the next few moments – or hours - were so filled with agonizing bumps and lurches that he forgot. Then Gwaine gasped, "There – in there, Merlin!"

Arthur blinked down at Gwaine's heels, then the knight leaned forward and Arthur slipped into blackness.

But not unconsciousness. It was a close, airless darkness, filled with harsh breathing and hasty fumbling. He was half-carried and half-dragged along the ground, the gritty floor of a cave or passage, and deposited onto his side. There was an odd blue glow from somewhere.

Then all was stillness. Gwaine sprawled next to him on the ground – he could see the knight's ear and unshaven jaw as he watched back toward the entrance of whatever hole in the ground they'd stuffed him into. Merlin was on his knees beside and behind Arthur. He felt his friend's fingers at his neck, and then nothing at all.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"I need to get the arrow out," Merlin hissed to Gwaine.

"Wait a while, til we're sure they won't hear him," Gwaine advised.

Merlin huddled next to Arthur, one arm wrapped around his knees, one hand resting lightly on the pulse in the king's neck – strong and steady. "Now?" he whispered.

"Not yet," Gwaine responded.

Merlin huffed at himself. Emrys, huh? The greatest sorcerer of all time. Battered and bruised by the rump of a mare, running from bandits like a jackrabbit, scrambling into a hole with his wounded king… He rubbed his cuff over his eyes. He'd noticed the threat of the ambush too late. "Now?" he said hoarsely.

Gwaine took a moment to answer. "It should be safe."

Merlin immediately conjured a small blue light, near the floor, where he could see Arthur's back clearly, but the king's body would block the light from showing at the cave's entrance. He took the shaft of the arrow in his right hand and laid his left palm firmly on Arthur's shoulder blade. Taking a deep breath, he jerked the arrow out.

Arthur grunted, then moaned. Gwaine twisted to put his hand over the king's mouth. "Is it bad?" he asked.

Merlin raised himself up on his knees and lifted the chainmail as well as the layers of Arthur's clothing, so he could slip his hand down next to Arthur's skin, slick with sweat or blood, he couldn't tell in the dim light, until his fingertips encountered the ragged tear in the flesh and Arthur flinched and groaned.

Merlin began to do his spellwork, repairing blood vessels, sealing the muscle and purifying the wound, commanding it to heal thoroughly. "There. He'll sleep awhile." He rubbed the small knob of scar tissues, then pulled his hand back and tried to wipe the weary trembling of it away on his trousers.

"Thought you had to ask first," Gwaine commented.

Merlin smiled. "It's the body's natural resistance that must be lowered by a verbal agreement," he explained, "but that's already done when someone's unconscious. In any case, I've healed him so often there's really not much point asking permission anymore."

"So, what?" Gwaine said. "Do we wait here til he wakes?"

Merlin twisted around to look further down the passage. He let the blue globe of light shrink and die, but it seemed to him that there was still a glow visible. "Think I'm going to have a look around," he said. "You stay with Arthur."

"I have a better idea," Gwaine objected. "You stay with Arthur and rest after that bit of magic, and I'll have a look."

"With what light?" Merlin scoffed. "I'm fine. I'll be all right. I'll be right back." He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled forward, hands on the walls to guide himself until he'd gone around a corner and felt himself safe enough to bring back the blue light.

Before him stood an old man in a brown robe with curly white hair and beard, and an earnest birdlike expression. Merlin hissed and leaped back, raising his hand defensively. "Do not be afraid," the old man said. "I am Taliesin."

There was silence for a handful of heartbeats. Merlin said cautiously, "I'm Merlin."

Taliesin smiled, a pleased, satisfied smile. "I know who you are. The moment of our meeting has been written for many, many years."

"I don't see how," Merlin said. "My friends and I were attacked by bandits and just happened upon this cave – do you live here?"

Taliesin's smile widened. "Not exactly, Emrys."

"Oh, hells, you too?" Merlin said, then was immediately contrite over his rude behavior to such an old man. "I'm sorry, I –"

"Your injured friend is King Arthur, is he not?" Taliesin said, untroubled. "Even now he seeks to unite Albion, and you object to your name – why?"

"I - I don't think I'm the one," Merlin admitted. "I'm not sure I can… It's an enormous responsibility for anyone…"

Taliesin nodded understandingly. "Come with me. I have something to show you." He turned and began to move away.

Merlin hesitated only an instant. The old man trusted him enough to turn his back, he surely wasn't plotting something sinister. Even though he seemed to know them and their quest, if he was an enemy he would have attacked instead of speaking to Merlin. And anyway, he couldn't get lost, could he, not with that golden connection that would lead him right back to his king. "Where are we going?" he asked, following.

"In good time you will discover all," Taliesin said over his shoulder.

Merlin was tempted to ask if the old man had ever been acquainted with Kilgarrah. "What is this place?" he asked.

"It is what you sensed when you entered the valley," Taliesin said. "You triggered the warning, did you not? It is an enchantment meant to deter the casually curious. Unfortunately –" the blue glow was growing brighter – Taliesin's hair and beard looked like a glowing halo around his head, as he passed through into what was evidently a larger underground chamber – "unfortunately, you are not my only visitor today, though you are the only one I was meant to interact with."

"What do you mean?" Merlin said, stepping from the passageway into the chamber – and instantly froze.

It was scattered, littered, showered with clusters of shining crystals. Floor, ceiling, all the walls – jutting from outcroppings, hiding in crannies – pulsing, gleaming. They all sang to him softly, and he took several involuntary steps forward.

"Hello, Merlin," someone said behind him. He whirled, happy to be distracted, until he recognized the shadow that moved to block the passageway. The witch in black. Morgana. "You look surprised to see me." She gave a soft, nasty laugh. "Mercenaries have their uses every once in a while, don't they? Here you are, right where I want you. And the other two aren't far behind, are they?"

Merlin readied his magic for defense. "Annis has been busy this week," he guessed.

"Annis, please… Annis knew nothing of the mercenaries," Morgana said. "It was more than I could have hoped for, actually," she went on with a hard-eyed smirk. "The three of you. Again."

"What is it you have against us, exactly?" Merlin said. "This isn't a fight to the death. Both of our teams are wasting time while we stand here talking."

Her sneer widened. "There was no stipulation in the rules that a team has to stay together. Don't worry. My queen's cause advances as we speak. I have all the time in the world to play."

"What is your quarrel with us, Morgana?" he said again.

"I had a cousin," she spat, all trace of levity gone. "Close to me as a sister. We grew up together. Studied magic together. She was to take the throne, control two kingdoms. She promised me Camelot. We were to be two queens, ruling side by side… You took everything from me when you killed her!"

"Morgause was your cousin?" he said in surprise. "I'm sorry for your –"

"You know nothing of my loss!" she snarled. He opened his mouth to object – it wasn't exactly a secret any longer, that the father of Merlin the Dragonlord, one of three survivors of the game of the labyrinth, had inherited his powers upon the death of his father in the maze. "All three of you will pay – starting with you, _Lord_ Merlin!"

He looked over at Taliesin, standing quietly in the midst of two dozen crystals, all crying jealously for his attention. "You betrayed me by bringing me here," he said.

"Not so," Taliesin said mildly. "This is the crystal cave, where magic began. It is an important step on your journey."

"What are you looking at?" Morgana raised her voice.

Merlin looked at Taliesin, who smiled gently. "They cannot see me at this time."

"Alator!" Morgana shrieked.

Merlin tore his gaze from Taliesin to see another robed figure move into sight at the far end of the chamber - thrumming, humming demandingly, a thousand times more beautiful and insistent than the thing Alvarr had hurled into his soul – blocking another passage. Alator of the Catha wore a brown and purple robe, and carried a staff. His head was completely shaven, even his eyebrows, and runes had been tattooed around his neck.

"Alator is a very accomplished interrogator," Morgana informed Merlin. "He tortures the _mind_." She sounded positively gleeful. "You will have a chance to experience his work before your death."

Alator spoke. "_Ligfyr onbaerne swithe_!" Flames sprang up in a circle around Merlin. He almost smiled in pity – did they not realize a dragonlord's affinity with that element? Alator began to intone, "Let the flames search out your thoughts. Let them burn into the darkest recesses of your mind…"

"What is it you see?" Taliesin said clearly, over the druid's chanting. He moved closer to Merlin, just outside the ring of fire, as if the heat did not touch him, either. He indicated the crystals, flickering with the flames, alive and hungry.

_Morgana in purple silk with a crown. Mordred in the amphitheatre, pulling not a knife but a sword. The shock on Arthur's face as he turned to help a child and found his own murderer. A pyre in the labyrinth. A pyre in the labyrinth._

"Images," he gasped to Taliesin, wrenching his eyes away. "I've seen something like this before, in the Crystal of Neahtid."

"It's working!" Morgana declared in a pleased sing-song.

Alator continued, "Let them shine a torch on your deepest secrets and bring them to the light.…"

"What you see here is exactly the same," Taliesin said, as if Merlin was not facing imminent death and torture in the meantime. It was so odd that Merlin found himself listening to him rather than the druid's hypnotic enchantment. "The Crystal of Neahtid was hewn from this very cave."

"Feel the fire roar deep within you," Alator said, "Feel your thoughts begin to simmer…" A trickle of sweat slipped down Merlin's face; he gripped his composure hard. Each threat reduced fear of the other, but he couldn't concentrate fully on either.

"Look into them, Emrys, really look," Taliesin commanded, pointing to the sparkling temptation. "Much will be revealed."

_Gaius stretched on a stone block for torture. Hunith disfigured with a crippling disease. Morgana holding Gwaine's face between her hands, his skin white and his eyes black with unspeakable agony. Arthur thrusting his sword into Freya's side._

"No!" he said. "Take me out of here!" He turned from the crystals to the fire, twisting to find some escape.

"Let them run like burning oil." Alator's voice gained strength and confidence. Morgana's smirk carried satisfaction. "Let them escape. Allow them free…"

Taliesin said, "The future is hidden to all but a very few, Emrys." Both Alator and Morgana stopped dead, staring at Taliesin with twin looks of shock on their face – Alator's hand rose to point at the apparition. Talisin ignored them. "You are one such person."

_One, one_ whispered a chorus of inviting voices, clear as glass and as hard. _Come, come, look_…

_Anhora handing Arthur a goblet that Merlin lunged to knock over, and missed. Kilgarrah breathing the full force of his fire down on Merlin, who stood over Arthur's body. Gwaine with eyes glowing green shoving Merlin down._

"Emrys?" Morgana's whisper was piercingly terrified, but not strong enough to drag Merlin from the power of the crystals. "I have dreamed – Emrys is to be my destiny, and my doom! Who are you? Where did you come from?"

_The sorceress Sophia, she of the sidhe magic, pushing Arthur's head under the water that brimmed over the stone lip of the arena well. Arthur falling to his knees, pale and gaunt, the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood as the light left his eyes._

"No!" Merlin cried. "_Acwence tha baelblyse_!" The ring of fire went out, and he staggered back against the wall of the cave. "I've been through this before!" The damage is done the damage is done! Alator's enchantment had not activated the crystals – they had activated _him_.

The crystal beside his head snatched his eyes around to stare into its depths. _Himself with new lines on his face, a few gray hairs among all the black on his head, laughing tumbling down a snowy hillside with an army of children piling atop him, Arthur watching him with amusement. Himself, following Arthur up the winding steps of a narrow tower, pausing at an unremarkable doorway._

"Emrys is a man destined for greatness, " Alator said, and there was wonder in his tone. "A man who will one day unite the powers of the old world and the new and bring the time that the poets speak of."

"Perhaps there is a reason you were brought here at this moment in time," Taliesin said.

"What reason?" Merlin demanded desperately, struggling to breathe as his heart twisted inside him.

Alator whispered, "The time of Albion."

"Only the crystals can tell you," Taliesin said sympathetically. "They contain futures that are not yet born. The secrets they reveal, Emrys, are unique to you and you alone. Look into them, Emrys. Really look. Use what you see for good."

_Arthur wrapping his gloved fingers around the hilt of a sword embedded in rock. Himself lying on the floor of this cave, the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood. Opening his eyes to see his father's face smiling down on him._

He fell to his knees, covering his eyes with his hands. "_What was that_?" he screamed. "What _was_ that?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Alator said quietly into his ear, "I understand the burden you carry."

Arthur's voice called threateningly, "If you have harmed him –" _Arthur_. Was here. He needed to rise, to fight – Merlin couldn't move.

Somewhere beyond him, Morgana said, "Why are we discussing his fate when it's time to decide yours? Not whether you're going to die – that's going to happen anyway – but how. And precisely how painfully."

Merlin tried again to push himself up, but his spine bowed his face to the floor, and his arms were nerveless, curling around his head. Alator continued, "I do not have your great powers, but I share your hopes. For I and others like me have dreamed of the world you seek to build and we would gladly give our lives to help you do it."

Hunched over his knees, Merlin turned his head to see Alator rise and point his staff at Morgana. The witch stood near the second entrance to the cave, raising her hand against Arthur and Gwaine, crouched behind an outcropping where Merlin had entered.

"_Forp fleoge_!" Alator shouted, and Morgana's body tumbled out of sight into the passageway. The warrior druid turned back to Merlin. "I am honored to be of service, Emrys," he said.

Then his head was wrenched brutally sideways, and his expression blanked. His body tumbled lifelessly down beside Merlin. Morgana's voice shrieked, "_Stanas ahreosath_!"

The cave shook, the ground and stone rumbling, the crystal chiming in harmonious alarm. And a downfall of boulders poured simultaneously into both outlet passages. They were trapped.

**A/N: Some dialogue and/or spells from ep.3.5 "The Crystal Cave," ep.4.5 "His Father's Son", ep.4.7 "The Secret Sharer", and ep. 5.13 "The Diamond of the Day".**


	23. Twice Possessed

**First of all, retroactive credit and thanks to CaraLee934 for a certain prophetic image in the last chapter, from her fic The Joy of Family, based upon this AU…**

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 3: Twice Possessed**

Arthur woke to darkness and sore muscles and Gwaine's snoring echoing in a small enclosed space. He reached out to slap the dark-haired knight awake, and felt a twinge in his back and shoulder, a pulling that wasn't painful, exactly, just –

"I thought he said an arrow!" Arthur said out loud, sitting up.

Beside him, Gwaine snorted, letting out a groaning yawn, and said, "Yep."

Arthur rotated his arm experimentally, reaching around to dig at the area with his fingers. "But it only feels bruised," he said.

"Well, Merlin healed you." He heard the grin in the knight's voice.

"Where is he now?" Arthur pushed himself to his feet, feeling his way with arms extended, so as not to bash his head in the dark cave.

"He was going to have a look around," Gwaine answered, getting to his feet also, by the sound of things. "Not outside – further into the cave. We'd have noticed if he passed us to go out-"

"We'd have noticed?" Arthur repeated, raising his voice slightly. "You were snoring like a pig, Gwaine, Merlin could've tripped right over you and you wouldn't have noticed. How long has he been gone?" The silence from Gwaine was sheepish. "Come on," Arthur said, exasperated.

"How much trouble could he get into, though?" Gwaine said. "It's a cave, a hole in the ground."

"You're really going to ask that question?" Arthur returned. "This is Merlin we're talking about."

They hadn't gone more than thirty paces before they heard voices. A female voice demanded, "What are you looking at?"

"Is that Morgana?" Gwaine hissed in Arthur's ear. "What the hell is she doing –"

"Alator, too." Arthur listened.

He couldn't make out the words initially, until the man said, "Let the flames search out your thoughts." Arthur drew his sword and moved more swiftly down the passageway, stumbling once, until the blue glow grew stronger, and they emerged into a chamber sprinkled with crystal growths that made Alvarr's nasty weapon look like a splinter. He and Gwaine ducked at the same time, Gwaine breathing a curse, shielding their eyes, but no visions manifested.

Down below them on the floor of the cave's main room, Merlin stood in a circle of fire. Arthur held back, knowing his sorcerer's ease and familiarity with that element – but there was something wrong with the way Merlin was standing. Morgana and Alator, outside the ring, faced Merlin, the druid's hands outstretched. Morgana leaned forward intently, and exclaimed, "It's working!"

Arthur could see nothing to tell him what they were doing, but he knew it wasn't good. "Where's the third one, Helios?" Gwaine breathed. Arthur leaned out of the scant cover they'd taken behind an outcropping of rock, glancing involuntarily at one of the crystals – though all he saw was a flicker of reflected flame – to search the chamber. Helios was nowhere in sight, but the mouth of a second passageway was visible just forty feet from them, along the wall.

"What are they doing to him?" Gwaine said. "What should we do?"

Merlin, encircled by the flames, gazed down around him as if seeking a path of escape. The next moment, Morgana and Alator both startled, gazing off to the side as if they'd heard something that Arthur had not.

Arthur's thoughts raced as his heart began to pump in anticipation of action. Merlin faced two sorcerers alone. Arthur didn't doubt his friend's abilities, and wouldn't be able to tell how he was attacked, much less guess his strategy for defense, but – Merlin shouted a counter-spell, and the flames vanished, but the sorcerer staggered back against the wall of the cave – all was not well.

But if he and Gwaine interrupted, they might do more harm than good – at least the crystals were keeping their disturbing images hidden.

Quick as thought, Merlin's head snapped all the way to his right, away from his friends in their niche. Arthur listened in confusion as the druid spoke, "Emrys is a man destined for greatness…" Alator stepped forward, advancing on the young sorcerer, but Morgana retreated toward the second tunnel.

Arthur leaped forward, drawing his sword. "What have you done to him?" he demanded.

Morgana spun to look at him, and a strange fear on her face flashed to triumph. "Ah, Arthur Pendragon," she said. "How good of you to join us."

Arthur kept his eyes on her even as Merlin screamed in agony and confusion, "_What was that_? What _was_ that?"

He took two steps forward, bringing his blade up to threaten her. "If you have harmed him –"

She laughed mockingly. "Why are we discussing his fate when it's time to decide yours? Not whether you're going to die – that's going to happen anyway – but how. And precisely how painfully."

Gwaine made to dash from cover toward their friend, hunched over on the floor of the chamber, and the druid bending over him, but Morgana made an impatient gesture, and Gwaine's boots skidded out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. She raised her palm toward Arthur's chest, and in spite of the eight or so yards between them, dread bloomed in his heart. He dodged back behind the outcropping, readying himself for a suicide charge.

The druid bellowed, and Morgana screamed, and Arthur pushed himself away from the safety of the alcove as the rock trembled and rumbled. Boulders tumbled down, striking a cloud of fragments and dust which puffed violently over Arthur and Gwaine.

Arthur staggered forward, coughing and trying to clear the air by waving his arm before him. The blue glow of the crystals was dispersed throughout the cloud of particles, but it was immediately obvious that rockfalls had blocked both passageways. He sheathed his sword and stumbled down into the main chamber, to the huddled figure of his best friend, nearly tripping over the body of the druid to reach Merlin's side.

"Merlin," Arthur said, sliding his arm across the sorcerer's back. "Merlin, are you hurt?"

"Not wounded, sire, but dead," Merlin said in a hollow voice. "Never strong enough to save the ones I love. The damage is done the damage is done."

"_Merlin_," Arthur said, shaken. Gwaine scrambled down to the bottom of the chamber, bending to check Alator for a pulse, shaking his head as Arthur glanced up at him for confirmation of the death. "Merlin, we're all right –"

"Except for being buried alive in this tomb," Gwaine said cheerfully, looking about and missing Arthur's dark glare entirely. "Merlin – hey, nothing's coming out of the crystals, okay? I promise."

Merlin allowed Arthur to pull him upright on his knees. "Look at me," Arthur commanded, and his friend met his eyes. "Look at me – now, we're all right?"

Merlin nodded, glanced up at Gwaine, then looked between them toward the blocked passageway where Morgana had stood a moment before. "I need to get out of here," he said softly, with a perfect calm that made Arthur cringe.

"All right," Arthur said. "Gwaine, check that entrance, and I'll have a look at this one, and we'll work on whatever tunnel will be easiest to clear."

"Arthur," Merlin said, catching his arm as he stood. "Which way is the best direction for us to take?"

Arthur paused to get his bearings. "If we go back the way we came, the valley leads us pretty nearly the direction we want to go."

"The bandit-infested valley," Gwaine put in, waiting for their decision.

"The other passage - might be a shorter route, actually, as long as we don't get lost."

"But Morgana," Gwaine said. "If it's a question of thirty bandits or Morgana…"

"Let's take the shorter way," Merlin suggested, pulling his feet under him and straightening. "I – I need some air."

"We'll get this cleared as soon as we can," Arthur promised, heading for the passage as Merlin stumbled behind him and Gwaine leaped back up to the rough path that connected the two entrances of the chamber.

"Arthur," Merlin said. "Wait." Arthur paused, and his friend stepped up beside him, settling his feet firmly and leaning forward with his hand raised.

Arthur caught his hand. "You don't have to if you're tired, Merlin," he said. "We can clear the rubble – it wouldn't take that much time –"

Merlin gave him a tired smile. "I need to get out of here," he whispered. After a moment, Arthur released him. Merlin uttered, "_Ic abietee paet stanhol_!" and his eyes flashed fiercely gold as the rock and rubble blasted away from the passage. But instead of heading for the cleared tunnel, Merlin turned and went back to the body of the druid. Arthur and Gwaine watched him for a moment before realizing that the sorcerer was trying to lift the druid to his shoulders.

"Just leave him," Gwaine said. "He must weigh twice as much as you."

Arthur made his way down beside his friend, who hadn't so much as paused in his efforts. "Merlin," he said softly.

"Can't leave him here," Merlin said shortly.

"Fine – let us help you," Arthur said.

Merlin persisted until it became apparent that he was not going to be able to rise and walk under the weight of the older man's body, then he silently relinquished the task to Gwaine, who made no further complaint.

Daylight mingled with the blue crystal glow in the dust of the air, and Arthur led the way down out of the cave. They skidded through the remains of the downhill passage, blinking at the brightness of day. Arthur's hand rested on his hilt, but there was no sign of Morgana. Behind him, Merlin sneezed and Gwaine cursed the dust mildly.

And three women stepped out simultaneously from behind the trunks of three trees – the big-boned blonde to the left, the plump grandmotherly sorceress to the far right, and the skinny green-eyed girl fifteen yards in front of them.

Arthur stopped, holding out his arms to halt his companions also. They tensed almost at the same time, and Gwaine unceremoniously dropped the deceased druid, but it was Arthur who spoke. "Good day to you ladies," he said, wary but polite. "We seek no quarrel, just the journey to the trident. There need be no confrontation between us here."

It wasn't the oldest sorceress who answered, nor yet the tall aggressive-looking blonde, but the shy slip of a girl in the center. "We have been commanded to delay your progressss," she said, the sibilance of her words sending a shiver up Arthur's spine.

He heard Merlin's breathing even out, as it did when he was concentrating or meditating, whatever he did to prepare himself and his magic, and thought if he dared glance back, he'd see that his sorcerer's eyes were closed.

"Or sstop you entirely," the girl continued, stepping forward. She moved with a curiously sinuous motion, and the way her eyes flicked between the three of them was unnerving.

"Surely Alined would rather you focus on your own quest," Arthur tried, and all three women lifted their chins with the same mocking laugh.

"Our orders come from someone higher than Alined," the grandmotherly sorceress to the right informed them, almost kindly.

"The High Priesstessss," the green-eyed girl said.

"Morgana." Merlin spoke the name dispassionately.

"Yess."

"Does Alined know you're taking orders from Annis' sorceress?" Arthur asked, addressing the tall blonde.

She glanced at the other girl uncertainly, before saying, "His sorcerer knows."

Hm. The buffoon in the yellow-striped trousers was more clever and sneaky than he looked, apparently. "And what does he get from his collaboration with Annis and Morgana?" Arthur asked.

"Hisss freedom from Alined," the girl in the middle said.

"Arthur," Merlin said, very quietly, "and Gwaine. Please trust me. _Don't kill them_." He stalked forward suddenly between Gwaine and Arthur, head lowered and eyes intent on the slight girl in the middle, making a gesture to each side as he went.

Arthur whirled to face the blonde sorceress, knowing Gwaine would do the same to the grandmother, knowing Merlin had a plan for the green-eyed girl.

Vines whipped down from the tree behind the tall girl, pinning her and holding her tightly. She yowled at Arthur, enraged, but as she struggled, her bare arms weren't even scratched. Arthur approached her cautiously, hand on his blade. She moaned, tossing her head and he halted as the skin of her face seemed to shift and glow blue and hard as bone.

Then she faced him again with a red-eyed glare, and he dove for cover as the tree behind him erupted with smoke, a smoldering black hole in the trunk at the level of his head. He looked up at it in shock, then rolled to his feet as a second blistering hole scattered burning leaves in a blast of heated air.

Arthur came to his feet and dashed into the trees, ducking and dodging and keeping her attention as more fireballs burst against trees, smoked through bushes, tossed clods of charred earth skyward.

_Don't kill them_, he thought sarcastically, panting as he took shelter behind a rock. _Hells, Merlin, I can't even get _close_. Whatever you're doing, do it faster, before this girl decides to quit delaying me and stops me entirely_!

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine turned reluctantly to the grandmotherly woman, as Merlin advanced on the scrawny girl-sorceress. The woman's eyes were wide, her cheeks round and pink, the thick brown braid draped over the shawl on her shoulder liberally sprinkled with gray. She said nothing. Gwaine said nothing. He made no move. He watched her, blocking out the sounds of a scuffle starting behind him – his part of the fight was the woman in front of him.

"You're a knight of Camelot," she said, and her voice was sweet as a girl's.

"Yes, I'm Gwaine." He gave her a little knightly bow, his eyes never leaving her face and his wariness increasing. "Sir Gwaine." A man of action. He did not know how to handle this sorceress, especially since she had shown no aggression whatsoever. That made him uneasy.

"I am Alice," she said. "I've been told to hinder your progress. I've been given an order from a High Priestess."

He tried a version of Arthur's lady-charming smile, which was more appropriate to her age than the devilish grin he usually employed with women. "And I obey my king, lady. He seeks the trident of the Fisher King, and I cannot allow any to stand in the way." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and he felt less noble now than at any time during his year as Cenred's warrior-slave. _Harmless old lady_, his eyes said. _Sorceress_, his mind recalled. _Harmless old lady_, his heart argued.

Sorceress. Yet still she made no move against him. He suddenly wanted to turn and make sure his two friends were okay – perhaps the distraction she provided by keeping him out of the fight to guard her was her intention. Now was not the time for innocuous conversation – but what else was he to do?

"Is Gaius still the court physician in Camelot?" she said, wistful as a girl.

"You know Gaius?" he said, surprised. Somewhere behind him, Arthur yelped, but the sound held more surprise than pain, and Gwaine kept his eyes on Alice. One of the other two girls was shrieking.

"We were once engaged to be married," Alice said, as casual and innocently honest as if they were two old friends who'd bumped into each other in the middle of a market street. She looked down and to the side, where a box of black iron with copper bindings tilted slightly atop an uneven rock. Gwaine felt his eyebrows rise – Gaius? Engaged to be married? She said, "I wish I that I hadn't –" and choked, her throat working and her chest heaving. Concern sparked inside Gwaine, but she breathed and said in the same regretful voice, "We quarreled over choices I made in my studies of magic. He said that I shouldn't even consider summoning a –" The sorceress choked again, gaping, trying to swallow.

Gwaine couldn't help stepping closer, reaching to put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She looked at him. "You know, Sir Gwaine," she said. "Gaius was right." She blinked and her eyes were fully black from lid to lid, no white no color no light, not even his own reflection.

He leaped back as her hand came out from under her shawl in a slashing motion, feeling a sting across the side of his left hand. He faced her, pushing down the horror that twisted in his stomach at the sight of such monstrously evil eyes in such a sweet face. She stepped forward, holding the knife out, and swiped at him again.

He leaned back to avoid the blade, but as she completed the sweep, his hand darted in to grasp her wrist. She struggled, but not whole-heartedly, and his strength was far superior. She tried to twist her hand to cut him again, but he held her firmly and pried the knife free from her wrinkled fingers. It was an odd thing, made of a single piece of polished black flint, the handle smooth and the blade sharp yet jagged. He tossed it down atop the box.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and innocent, her plump arm in his grasp. It all felt so _wrong_ to him, so strange. This was the sort of person a knight should be _defending_, not…

He stepped behind her, turning her arm without violence, capturing her other hand and holding them together in one of his. She didn't fight him, didn't use magic at all, as far as he could see. It made him nervous not to know what she was planning, what she was capable of. Surely she didn't think that pulling a knife on a warrior…He glanced up over her shoulder to see the tall blonde sorceress had been captured herself, tied to a tree somehow. Arthur was crouched a stone's throw away behind a rock, evidently unharmed.

Gwaine shook Alice's shawl from her shoulders, put a corner of it between his teeth and ripped a strip off down one side. Using the soft length of cloth, he tied her hands behind her, firmly but gently, then – keeping his eye on her distrustfully – he ripped another strip before spreading the rest of the shawl over the grass and dirt on the ground.

"Seat yourself, please," he told her, and she obeyed, sweetly compliant, unapologetically awkward and slow with her hands so restrained. Then Gwaine tied the second strip around the ankles of her boots. Maybe he was wasting his time. Maybe she was laughing at him behind that wide-eyed innocence. Such flimsy bindings would have been a joke to Merlin.

He stumbled as he rose, the hillside seeming to tip under him. "Are you all right?" Alice asked him, with no irony whatsoever in repeating his question to him. "Sir Knight?"

He planted his feet and held himself still – but the blue of the sky and the green of the forest all around swirled together and began to revolve around him. He heard her say his name again, and looked down at her – obsidian eyes no white no reflection – and raised his hand, palm up, fingers spread.

The shallow cut, hardly more than a scratch, was black and foul, the veins of his hand and wrist – and forearm, he saw as he tugged his sleeve up – purple-black rather than blue.

"If you do not wish to fall, Sir Gwaine," she said, all warm and caring concern, "seat yourself, please."

He spun away from her, taking three stumbling steps down the hillside, gathering the box and the black flint knife up clumsily, his one thought being to get her accoutrements of sorcery as far away from her as possible.

Flash of yellow – the blonde sorceress' dress, far away across the clearing. Flash of silver light – reflections of sunlight from Arthur's chainmail. Where was Merlin?

Gwaine's foot caught on something and he went down, flinging the box and knife as far as he could before he collided with the earth and the blackness spread to his own eyes.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin blinked in the brightness of the sun after the dark cave, and shielded his eyes with one arm. But there was nothing to shield himself from the sudden sense of the presence of magic – foul magic, dark magic – that assailed him from three points at once.

He heard Arthur's voice, wary yet calm, and abandoned his physical sense to focus on the magic. Arthur was his shield as much as he was Arthur's – when danger was imminent, he'd let Merlin know. For now –

To the left, a blackness like a hole bored through the fabric of the world, a tunnel leading elsewhere, a tunnel where powerful magic waited to be called forth. Waited behind… a door, of sorts.

To the right, in contrast, a flickering light, a presence just as alien, an airy and malevolent magic that reminded him of – of Sophia. _The sorceress Sophia, she of the sidhe magic, pushing Arthur's head under the water that brimmed over the stone lip of the arena well. _He blinked his eyes open, gasping for breath. But there was no well on this sunny hillside. Just – a sorceress with blonde hair and a yellow dress. No staff, but – he recognized the source of her magic.

And in front of them, the slender girl, with green eyes and a purple dress that had seen better days. Smallest and youngest, she was still clearly the leader. The other two were vessels…she was a monster.

"And what –" he heard Arthur's words clearly now – "does he get from his collaboration with Annis and Morgana?"

"Hisss freedom from Alined," the girl hissed.

"Arthur," Merlin said, his mouth dry and his throat tight, "and Gwaine." They could stand here all day talking. These three were meant to delay, to distract, to obstruct their way as much as possible and in any way possible. "Please trust me."

Merlin meant to take the offensive.

"Don't kill them," he said, stepping forward.

Eyes on the green-eyed girl, he flung one hand and a spell out to each side as he advanced, the spells similar enough not to interfere with each other – one bound the box placed next to Alice, and the other bound Elena, the tall blonde sorceress. Each spell locked itself in place, impossible to be released unless he freed them. Or died.

The green-eyed girl gave him a seductive smile, retreating before him so that he could come no nearer without turning the confrontation into a chase. He slowed his steps to a careful, deliberate stalking like Arthur hunting.

"You are Lamia, aren't you?" he said. "Or rather, you are _a_ lamia."

She passed behind a tree, gave him a glance over her shoulder. His ear picked up the sounds of Elena's attack on Arthur, but he knew she couldn't free herself. Arthur would keep his distance, and Merlin would know from their connection if something happened. And with the box sealed, Gwaine could handle Alice – for a time.

"You are cleverer than you look," Lamia said in a low voice. "I am the lasst of my ssissterss. No one has recognissed me for yearss."

"I read books," Merlin told her as she put the trunk of another tree between them – he dodged to keep her in sight. She wasn't withdrawing in a straight line, but rather moving sideways. Toward Arthur. He moved with her to stay between her and his king, instead of pursuing her directly. She paused.

"Men," she said, the word a caress on his ears, her magic slippery to his senses. She edged around a tree, her back and palms to the bole, chin tucked down, eyeing him in shameless invitation. "_Tassty_."

The green of the forest began to glow around him. Nimueh's offer had been fairly straightforward, Catrina's spell an enticing aroma – Lamia's seduction was smoke. He wanted to cough or choke, and began to feel light-headed, as from a lack of air.

"And ssorcery," she continued hungrily, leaning forward as he took two steps toward her, "addss _sspice_."

He had a natural reluctance to battle female magic-users. But these three accomplished their purpose by prolonging any altercation. He lifted his hand and continued his measured progress forward. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction and anticipated triumph as he came to her, until he was six feet away, then she shrank back, fear crossing her face as she realized he moved under his own power, and not hers.

Or maybe there was something else she saw, or sensed. She cringed down and screamed as if he had touched her with a lighted brand, drew breath to scream twice. He paused, and she looked up at him, a wounded animal enraged, panting.

"Not so sure you want me?" he said, as she glared. "You won't find me such easy prey."

"Your magic holdss no fear for me!" she spat, almost crouched to the ground now, her arms wrapped defensively around her.

He hadn't even done anything. Was she still drawing him out? "Then what are you waiting for?" he goaded her, then reached as if to touch her again, experimentally.

She shuddered while his fingers were still two feet from her skin, shrieked again with all her strength, the force of her magical revulsion repelling him so strongly that he was thrown several feet to land on his back.

"It cannot be!" she hissed. "Travessty! There iss nothing great about _him_!" She crawled two feet toward him, but swayed in a reluctance to approach, as though her will and her instinct warred. "He cannot be the _Emryss_."

Merlin raised himself up on his elbows. "I have been so named," he declared with a certainty he was far from feeling. He pulled in his legs and began to rise, but she spat at him and darted away, slipping from shadow to shadow, stopping twice to look back at him – not as if she was luring him to follow but as if she feared he would.

Merlin waited until he was sure that her retreat had been genuine and permanent, not a surreptitious advance on either of his friends, then he hurried straight to Arthur, tripping once over a root on his way.

Arthur wasn't in sight when Merlin came to the tree where Elena was trussed, but the connection told him direction and distance, and Merlin silently congratulated his king. Elena's exploding orbs of blue sidhe magic, more energy than physical flame, burst fairly harmlessly against the boulder Arthur had taken cover behind, though it hadn't seemed to stop Elena blasting the stone a charry black.

Merlin moved closer, concentrating. One of his first lessons with Gaius after the game in the amphitheatre had been to clarify the uses of sidhe magic. The staff Sophia had carried indicated a partnership, a loan of power in return for something of equal value. That Elena had no such weapon meant that she herself served as a conduit for the power of a sidhe, probably residing inside her and directing her actions.

He advanced until he could touch the tree the vines had imprisoned her against. He readied himself, consciously regulating his breathing. Such possession, in theory, should be reversed by means of a potion, rare of composition and hard to brew. But he recalled a footnote in Gaius' book about the question of removing an inhabiting sidhe with the use of raw magic. It would be rough on both of them, but if Elena was not responsible for her actions and choices, she deserved this chance.

Merlin reached around her shoulder, circling backwards, his hand hovering inches from her heart before she even saw him.

Lamia had screamed. Elena swore, spitting out words even Gwaine might have hesitated to use. Merlin closed his eyes, searching for that blue spark in the sorceress' heart, like a hooked thorn buried deep. He absorbed the energy of her attacks, rather than dividing his own to defend, ruthlessly mixing ice-blue with warm-gold. Searching, his magical senses flaying open as he dug deeper – deeper – chasing – losing –

He had it, firm in his grasp. He closed his fingers into a fist, not even touching the yellow fabric of her dress, and pulled. And _pulled_.

Once when he was young, he had put his hand into a small earthenware jar where Hunith had stored gathered hazelnuts to grab a handful – and then found it impossible to free himself without releasing his fistful of nuts. This was very like.

The sidhe tried to bite and claw its way from the grip of his magic, battered and bruised from the fury of the creature and the impossibly tight fit of the process itself. He would not give up. He would not let go. He would pull until his knuckles were bleeding freely and his finger-bones broken and it was a terrible metaphor since he wasn't even touching Elena and his will was _stronger_ than that of the sidhe and he would have his way and she was crying and gasping and Arthur's voice was in his ears and –

He tumbled backwards again, nearly cracking his head against the boulder that had sheltered the king – the blue light hovered before Elena's astonished face briefly before beginning to zip away. Merlin froze time to see the tiny creature flip around and extend a miniature staff, no bigger than a sliver – and reacted with a blast of magic. Sparks flew, then nothing was left.

Merlin shivered. He felt so heavy, he didn't try to get up, or even to move.

Arthur knelt over him, visually checking him for injury, his expression stunned. "_What_ in all hells was _that_? Merlin?"

"A sidhe," Merlin said. "A faerie. I'm fine, just leave me lie for a minute."

"Are you sure?" Arthur said. "I lost count of how many times she blasted you…" Merlin shook his head negligently.

Elena's eyes were like saucers. "That thing was _inside_ me?" she squeaked. "Wait – is _that_ why I agreed to join this harebrained quest?"  
"I sincerely hope so," Merlin said tiredly. "If you swear upon your honor and your mother's soul to surrender and leave the contest, I will let you loose."

"Yes, please," Elena said. "I swear." Merlin released the spell on the vines and Arthur reached instinctively to help her step free. "Thank you," she said to the king. "I'm ever so sorry for trying to kill you, I – oh, dear. I did rather cause some damage, didn't I?"

Merlin let his head fall back to the ground and rolled to curl up on his side. His right hand had clenched into a fist and his fingers would not relax. He began to rub it lightly, massaging the tendons in his wrist, chafing the reddened skin of his knuckles. When his fingers brushed the muscle around the base of his thumb, he flinched and left off.

There was humor in Arthur's voice. "Never mind, I'm not hurt."

"What about him?" Elena said, as Merlin gingerly unwrapped each finger from the fist.

"Merlin's all right, aren't you, Merlin?" Arthur said. "He's always all right." The king extended a gloved hand into his range of vision. He grasped it awkwardly with his left hand and Arthur dragged him to his feet. "Aren't you?" his friend demanded in a low voice.

"Right as rain," Merlin answered with a reassuring smile. A headache was beginning to crawl up his neck from his shoulder. "We need to get to Gwaine."

He left Arthur to escort Elena, and hurried across the open hillside to the right of the tunnel's entrance, still trying to squeeze some life and relief through his right wrist. Elderly Alice waited very properly on her shawl on the ground, her hands tied behind her and her feet bound with strips of cloth. Merlin paused by the rock that had supported the black iron box, now missing, and gazed around, searching for the knight.

"He's just down there," Alice told him placidly, nodding her head down the hillside.

He clambered down, hearing both women's voices behind him, and Arthur's joining them, until the king said, "How is he?" Merlin knelt by Gwaine, pushing him to his back. Gwaine groaned and his eyes fluttered open – dead black. Merlin flinched, and Arthur swore. "Come on, let's get him back up there," Arthur said.

"Watch that arm," Merlin said, indicating Gwaine's left, where a small scratch on his hand was spreading black through his veins. They each took one of Gwaine's arms, carefully, and dragged him back up the hillside, to where the women waited, Alice on her shawl and Elena perched on the boulder.

Merlin collapsed beside Gwaine and turned to check his pulse and breathing. Arthur placed his hand on the hilt of his sword in no uncertain threat, and said to Alice, "You have poisoned him, haven't you?"

"Yes, but it – it forced me to do it," she said, agitated. Merlin spun to look at her. "It – it made me," she pleaded, turning wide innocent eyes on him. "Morgana said if I didn't obey it –"

"Who forced you?" Arthur demanded.

"The creature," Alice said. "The creature. The –" She began to choke, and her eyes flashed black as Gwaine's for a moment, then she sank back, breathing heavily. Elena looked on in astonishment, but said nothing.

"Arthur, we need her box," Merlin said, taking Gwaine's hand in his and turning it to examine the wound. "And there may be a knife, also, something with a jagged blade – be very careful not to cut yourself, sire."

"I was handling blades before you were born," Arthur scoffed, jogging down the hill and casting about before bending to lift the box under one arm. He looked about, scuffing his boot through the grass, then retrieved the tiny black blade also, and returned.

"Set it there." Merlin nodded at the boulder, and Elena slipped off it, climbing to crouch near Alice, her hands clasped over her knees. It was a black iron box, with copper bindings. He stared at it, trying to recall the page he'd seen it on, in another of Gaius' books. It was a bestiary, wasn't it, or perhaps a treatise on mythical magic…

"If you have a shred of decency left, please tell us how to counteract the poison," Arthur suggested.

"It's a manticore, isn't it?" Merlin said wearily, and though Alice could say nothing, the horror in her eyes was answer enough. He looked up at Arthur. "You can't counteract a manticore's venom, it's too deadly by far."

"So what can we do?" Arthur said, gazing down at his knight.

"We can kill the manticore," Merlin said, frowning as he tried to recall all that the page had said about the creature. "The poison is imbued with its magic. With the manticore dead, it will lose its potency."

"Is it in that box?" Arthur said, his hand once again on his sword. "How do I kill it?"

"You can't."

"Fine," Arthur said in exasperation. "How do _you_ kill it?"

"I can't," Merlin admitted. "I don't have the power. But maybe there's another way, if I can remember…The manticore cannot live in this world long." He glanced at Alice, who nodded in silent corroboration. "It's life source is the ancient evil that exists in the spirit world."

"So if we can trap it in this world…" Arthur reasoned.

"Exactly," Merlin said. "If we were to summon the creature, and you kept it at bay long enough, perhaps I could break the box. It is enchanted, it will need magic to destroy it."

"The gateway?" Elena blurted.

"If the gateway is destroyed, then the creature's connection with its life source will be destroyed with it," Merlin said.

"And the manticore will die?" Arthur asked. "And Gwaine will be all right?"

"I believe so," Merlin said, wishing Gaius was there. He struggled to his feet, as Arthur repositioned the box, to face away from the other three, and stepped back warily.

"Are you ready?" Arthur said to him with an appraising glance. "What if this doesn't work?"

"Then we're going to have a very angry manticore on our hands," Merlin told Arthur with a smile. He turned his attention back to the box, releasing the locking spell. His hand shook as he reached to open the lid, from exhaustion, though, not from fear. But they had no time to wait for his strength to return – Gwaine was fading fast.

The box was apparently empty – Arthur shot him a look and shifted his weight. Merlin summoned all his strength and spoke the spell, "_Cume her, pin scinnlaecan_!" The magic rushed forth from him to open the portal and compel the monster forward – he wavered and sank to his knees.

A scratching sounded from inside the box, and a tiny clawed hand, no bigger than a baby's, wrapped over the rim of the box. The creature hoisted itself into view, snarling through sharpened teeth. The face was fairly human, but bore a leathery fringe like a dragon's wing. The hindquarters were that of a lion, and the thick curved tail ended in the stinger of a scorpion. It sniffed toward Merlin, toward Arthur, and leaped –

"_Adee thas sawle duru_!" Merlin gasped. The box rattled as if someone had bumped it accidentally. Elena was shrieking.

Arthur wrestled with the creature in the grass, on his back, holding it off him as its claws scrabbled at the chainmail protecting his chest. "Merlin!" he shouted, dodging the strike of the scorpion tail at his face.

Merlin took a deep breath, and focused. "_Adee thas sawle duru_!" he shouted, and fell forward onto his hands, panting. The box lifted an inch and thumped back down, the copper bindings rubbing on the iron. He sobbed in frustration.

"Merlin – now!" Arthur commanded desperately.

He closed his eyes and drew more deeply on the well of power and strength than he ever had done deliberately, glared at the portal and roared furiously, "_Adee thas sawle duru_!" The box twitched, then blasted apart into fragments too tiny to be seen or felt, dissipating immediately.

Merlin turned to see Arthur duck another strike from the manticore's poisoned tail – _hells, it didn't work_! – the creature rounded on him, hissed, and leaped for Merlin's face. He fell back, defenseless – and the manticore burst into flaming tatters that fluttered all around him as he sank back into darkness.

**Geez, these chapters are getting **_**long**_**…**

**A/N: Some dialogue/spells from ep. 2.6 "Beauty and the Beast", ep.3.5 "The Crystal Cave," ep.3.9 "Love in the Time of Dragons", ep.4.7 "The Secret Sharer", ep.4.8 "Lamia". **

**Also, a big ham sandwich with mustard to anyone who recognizes the line from "Philadelphia Story." :D**


	24. Out of the Shadows

**And to apologize to Merlin for once again running him magically into the ground, so to speak, lots and lots of credit where credit is due. :D**

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 4: Out of the Shadows**

"Is it true?" Gwaine heard a woman's voice say. He recognized the voice, sweet and innocent. Alice the poisoner. He struggled to return to consciousness.

Then he heard Arthur, "You can't expect me to answer a question so self-serving as that." His king sounded calm and amused, and Gwaine relaxed also. "You can ask my knight there, if you like. When he wakes."

"It shouldn't be long," Alice said. "He is improving quickly – he should have full use of his hand in a few hours." His hand.. _oh, right_! Gwaine tried to work his fingers, but succeeded only in a few small twitches.

"That is good news," Arthur said.

"What about your sorcerer?" Alice continued.

"What about him?" Arthur's voice carried the edge it always did whenever someone questioned Merlin.

"His right thumb is dislocated, if I'm not mistaken." _His thumb_? It seemed they all three of them had an interesting time of it. He tried again for full consciousness, for the use of all five of his senses.

"Did that happen –" it was a second feminine voice, girlish and hesitant – "because of me?"

Gwaine opened his eyes to a clear blue sky, puffy white clouds drifting lazily. He smelled grass and dirt. His left arm was stiff and clumsy, but there was no pain. He lifted his head to see it neatly bandaged.

"I couldn't say," Alice said earnestly, "I have never treated anyone suffering from the effects of forcing a sidhe removal."

"Well, so you finally decided to join us?" Arthur moved into view, his half-smile pulled sideways. "Just in time, too – the work is done."

"The work?" Gwaine sat up, blinking in confusion at Arthur and the blonde sorceress, both brushing off their hands, and, in the girl's case, the front of her dress.

"We've just finished raising a cairn over the druid," Arthur said.

Gwaine glanced up the hill in the direction of the cave's entrance, and found himself looking at Merlin's long legs sprawled on the grass. Alice knelt over him, obscuring Gwaine's view of the rest of the sorcerer, her back to Gwaine. She made a rather violent motion and Merlin cried out, convulsing before falling still again. Gwaine scrambled up, fumbling for his sword.

"Peace, Gwaine," Arthur said, though he grimaced down at their friend also. "They've both surrendered. Alice is tending Merlin's injury."

Alice looked at him over her shoulder, round-cheeked and wide-eyed and remorseful. "I do apologize, Sir Gwaine. I hoped I could learn from the creature, that I could harness its magic for the good, for healing. But it was too strong for me. Manticores are nasty and vicious creatures, and I should have listened to Gaius' warning – he was right."

_Manticores – what_? Gwaine moved around Arthur, where he could see Merlin and Alice both. His friend lay unconscious, motionless, while the sorceress bound his hand carefully with strips that matched the bandage on Gwaine's own hand. The blonde girl seated herself on the boulder.

What had Alice told them about what happened? "She attacked me, she poisoned me," he told Arthur.

"Yes, I know," Arthur said, unperturbed, then explained, "We discovered that Alice was in the thrall of a manticore, but she's rid of it now."

"Well, what are you going to do?" Gwaine persisted. He wasn't sure he trusted either of the women.

"What would you suggest, Sir Gwaine, that I run her through with my sword after she's surrendered?" Arthur said, gently ironic.

Alice looked up, taking the implication calmly. "It is far better to die free than to live as a slave," she said, and Elena nodded.

Gwaine looked at her, and all animosity drained away. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I agree with you." Arthur clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"What shall we do now?" Elena asked. "Do you mean to continue without him? And what of us?"

"We don't go anywhere without Merlin," Gwaine stated. "We'll wait for him."

"It may be a while, if we wait for Merlin," Arthur told Gwaine.

"Did more magic, did he?" Gwaine sighed, looking down at their unconscious friend. Of course he did more magic, he was Merlin after all, and that's what Merlin did – give his heart and soul to protect his friends.

Alice sat back on her heels, laying Merlin's bandaged hand lightly on his stomach. "How much magic?" she asked, reaching to touch Merlin's forehead in exactly the same way that Gaius did with his patients, and Gwaine found he could see this woman working at the old physician's side.

"Well, he healed me from an arrow wound," Arthur said, "then he faced Morgana and Alator in the cave…"

"Blasted the cave open after the rockfall," Gwaine put in.

"Yes, then whatever magic he did against the two of you – and Lamia," Arthur continued. "He pulled the sidhe out of Elena –"

"Kicking and fighting," Elena observed apologetically.

"Yes, and killed it, then the magic to destroy the manticore," Arthur finished.

"All in one day?" Alice said in surprise. "Poor boy, no wonder – he's done himself in." She glanced up the hill at Elena, who scooted down from the boulder to Merlin to scrutinize him more closely.

"You really think he is?" Elena said to her. "I mean, look at him, he's not –"

"We all have to start somewhere," Alice said. "Even the most powerful of sorcerers still put their trousers on one leg at a time."

"Yes, but that means that _he_ –" Elena said, pointing to Arthur, but Alice interrupted her.

"Your Majesty, we have horses, and there's a small village not far from here; it's on your way toward the Perilous Lands."

Arthur knelt to drawn his unconscious sorcerer onto his shoulders. "Come on," he said. "Let's see if these horses are still around. We can at least make it to this village." Gwaine and Arthur, with Merlin on his back, followed the two women down the hill and into the trees, one of them occasionally glancing back at them. "Caught you off guard, then, did she?" Arthur puffed, "Sliced your hand open."

"Yeah." Gwaine shook his head at himself. "What about you?"

Arthur snorted. "Felt like I was running around with a giant target attached to my back," he said. "Til Merlin showed up to rip that creature out of her."

"That's why he said don't kill them," Gwaine realized. "Because they were – possessed?" Arthur grunted. "You think he killed the third one – Lamia?" Gwaine ventured.

"Have to ask him," Arthur returned, which reminded Gwaine of the conversation he'd overheard just before waking.

"What question did you tell them to ask me?" Gwaine said, gesturing at the two women.

"They wanted to know," Arthur panted for breath and steadied himself as he slid on a patch of pebbles, before continuing, "do I think I'm the once and future king." _Ah_. Gwaine chose not to press the topic, and a moment later Arthur grunted, "There's the horses."

There were two mounts tethered to the tree, and they concluded, whatever had happened between Merlin and Lamia, the girl sorceress had subsequently ridden away. After a moment of arguing over who should ride, and why, Arthur put his foot down and ordered Gwaine to mount behind Merlin and hold him in the saddle, while Alice took the second horse. Gwaine, who'd begun to feel light-headed and queasy after just that short walk, shut his mouth but glanced at Elena.

"Oh, no, please," she said. "I'd rather walk. I feel amazing – I haven't felt this good in _years_."

So Arthur and Gwaine hoisted their friend up to the saddle, and Arthur held him upright while Gwaine mounted and settled in, his right arm under Merlin's to support the young sorcerer against his chest, Merlin's head resting back on his shoulder. Gwaine laid his injured left hand carefully on his thigh, and Arthur took the reins to lead the mare, Alice and Elena ambling alongside.

Once along the way they stopped and pressured Arthur into changing places with Gwaine. Though the king's wound had been healed by Merlin, he had stumbled once too often for the other three to ignore. Gwaine assured them that his arm had returned – almost – to normal, and slid from the horse's back to let the king take his place behind Merlin.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the village, and Merlin hadn't so much as stirred.

"We'll stay here the night," Arthur decided, lowering the sorcerer into Gwaine's arms outside the little tavern the town offered for visitors' comfort and lodging. "We can move on once he's recovered, tomorrow morning, hopefully."

"You're welcome to our horses, sire," Alice said. "Your quest is an important one, a noble one. We hope for your success –"

"Now that we both can think for ourselves," Elena added humorously.

"No, you'll need the horses," Arthur decided, dismounting wearily. He ducked under one of Merlin's arms. "We may be first on Morgana's list of enemies, but your surrender today means she'll be looking for you eventually."

"She did seem a vengeful person," Gwaine added, arranging Merlin's other arm around his own shoulders.

"Go to Camelot," Arthur advised. "Ask to speak to Sir Leon, and tell him everything – he'll ensure your safety."

The women exchanged glances. "Then we should probably try to travel further before we stop for the night," Elena said. "Thank you, King Arthur, and be sure to thank Merlin as well." She mounted the second horse.

"Oh, it's my privilege," Arthur said, shifting Merlin a little higher. "And Merlin – is just like that. But he'll be pleased to know you appreciate what he did."

"We wish you all the best of luck, Your Majesty," Alice added. "You are extraordinary young men, all of you. Albion is fortunate in her champions, I believe." She gathered up her reins in preparation for departure.

Gwaine grinned up at her. "Say hello to Gaius for me," he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur lay on the cot and stared toward the ceiling, obscured in the dark, one hand behind his head. In spite of the exertions of the day, the bath and hot meal, he found himself unable to sleep. And judging from the muttering and shuffling coming from the pallet at the foot of the bed, Gwaine was wakeful also, a guess that was confirmed when the knight spoke.

"What are you thinking of, Arthur?"

He took a moment to answer. He trusted Gwaine of course, they all did, but serious conversations were much easier to hold with Merlin. Much easier to show vulnerability to a man he was not supposed to have to lead in battle. "I'm wondering," he said, "if my father would be proud of me."

Gwaine gave a short chuckle of disbelief. "Are you joking?" he said. "Other people's fathers are proud of you. Yours would be beside himself. What makes you say that?"

"Two years ago, almost on this very day," Arthur mused, "I was lying a room with a noble warrior named Lancelot and a farm boy who expected to die so that his village could have half his weight in grain."

Gwaine didn't have to ask who; he'd heard the story before. "_Half_ his weight," the dark-haired knight scoffed. "For _his_ life? I think his village made a poor bargain, there."

Arthur huffed in brief amusement. "I do believe, Sir Gwaine, that I – and you – have benefitted most from that deal."

"And Camelot – and Albion," Gwaine added.

Arthur kicked one foot free of his blankets restlessly, turned toward where Merlin rested on the second cot. They hadn't been able to rouse him to wash or eat, though they'd managed to spoon some broth down his throat. "A lot has happened in a short amount of time," Arthur said. "It's a lot to think about."

"I know what you mean," Gwaine said, after a moment. "Destinies are – troublesome things. You feel trapped like your whole life has been planned out for you, and you've got no control over anything and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny decided is really the best thing at all. But – I just don't see it as that complicated. You are what you are, and he is what he is. And both of you do the best you can with what you have, day after day. That's all anyone has a right to ask."

"Hm." Arthur grinned wryly to himself. "You know, Gwaine, I've gotten used to these bits of wisdom from Merlin, but coming from you, that was –"

"Unexpected, yeah?" He could hear the grin in the knight's voice, too. "Well, I do listen to Merlin sometimes, too. And I'm not blind – the two of you are a lot alike."

"We've got a long day ahead of us," Arthur said. He'd already decided that if Merlin didn't wake, come morning, he'd buy a horse off someone in the village – or three, if they had them for the sum that Arthur carried at his belt – and tie Merlin down and keep going. He'd prefer sending the sorcerer back to Camelot with Gwaine, but even if the knight would go, Merlin would be furious once he woke and found what Arthur had done.

No, for good or for ill, they all three were in this quest together.

When Arthur woke, he could immediately tell that Merlin was feeling better. The sorcerer had shifted his position from how Gwaine and Arthur had arranged him, sprawling out in a way that Arthur could only assume was more comfortable to him. His color was better, his breathing even and deep, though he didn't wake as Arthur – and then Gwaine – dressed themselves and went downstairs for their breakfast.

"We're down to six opponents, you know," Gwaine mentioned, scraping a piece of bread around the inside of his bowl. "Depending on whether or not Merlin killed that third sorceress." Arthur didn't respond, and Gwaine joked, "Well, he can't let them all surrender and walk free, can he?"

Before Arthur could answer, an object came soaring through the air to slap onto the table between them, sliding and clattering among the dishes. Arthur's mind processed the identity of the object as a _glove_, even as he leaped to his feet and faced the thrower, hand ready on his sword.

It was a plain boy, wearing a white shirt and open vest over brown trousers, with eyes set perhaps too close together and ears that stuck out. His arms dangled at his sides, though there was a small round shield attached to his left forearm of the rough wooden variety the knights of Camelot used for training and sparring. It was Odin's sorcerer, though the unadorned hilt of a sword jutted over his left shoulder.

Arthur sensed Gwaine searching the suddenly-silent room for other threats – the other two warriors loyal to Odin – as he kept his eyes on the sorcerer. "I issue a challenge," the boy said clearly. "To the death. Right now, in the clearing just outside town."

"What's your name?" Arthur said.

Confusion bloomed in the boy's eyes, making him look even younger. "I'm Gilli," he said.

"Gilli, I'm Arthur," he said.

"I know who you are."

"Then you'll know that I fight with the sword, not with magic," Arthur said. He'd seen challenges issued between fighting men often enough, but he'd never heard of a sorcerer throwing down a gauntlet and squaring off with a sword in hand.

"Here is my weapon," Gilli said, reaching to touch the hilt of the sword. There was a ring on the middle finger of his right hand – and Arthur was reminded of Merlin's words, _Don't judge a book by its cover - he has a focus of considerable power_. Scant inches from the ring was a curious amber amulet around Gilli's neck on a black cord.

Gwaine said from the other side of the table, "I accept your challenge." Arthur turned to find Gilli's glove in Gwaine's hand.

"I meant to challenge King Arthur," Gilli objected, flustered. "I was told – I was given orders –"

"You didn't specify a name when you issued this," Gwaine pointed out, shaking the glove once. "You threw it down between the two of us. And I have taken it up."

"Gwaine," Arthur warned, reaching for the glove.

The knight moved it back out of his reach. "No, Arthur, you know I'm within my rights."

"Fine," Gilli snapped, with more spirit than he'd shown til now, more spirit than Arthur would have supposed him to possess. "But after I'm done with him, I challenge you," he said to Arthur, and he was reminded strongly of Merlin, though he hoped Merlin would have known better than to take up arms against a trained warrior, without using magic.

Using magic… "On one condition," Arthur said. "You must remove your amulet." He pointed to his own neck to demonstrate what he meant.

Gilli's fingers touched the amber, betraying youthful confusion again. "This?" he said.

"What about the ring?" Gwaine said to Arthur.

"The ring was my father's," Gilli said quickly. "He left it to me when he died."

Arthur knew what it was to lose a father. He also knew Odin – the sort of king he was, the sort of man. Very like Uther. And knowing how Uther had treated Merlin, he could guess what Gilli's life had been like in Odin's court. At least Merlin still had Gaius, and Arthur, and Gwaine, Leon, Percival…

"Remove the amulet before you fight," Arthur said. The sorcerer wordlessly lifted the amber stone from around his neck, handing it to the innkeeper behind his counter, and as he spoke to the man, Arthur said to Gwaine in an undertone, "Go easy on him. It doesn't have to be to the death."

"What is it with you and Merlin?" Gwaine said, amused and exasperated. "Don't kill them," he repeated mockingly.

Arthur stepped back to the innkeeper, who was looping the black cord around Gilli's amber stone for safekeeping, and requested, "Please look after our friend still sleeping upstairs? He'll need to eat, and if we aren't back when he's through, please let him know where we are."

The innkeeper nodded, and Arthur and Gwaine followed the few interested villagers through the door and down the street to a small circular clearing, where people were already beginning to gather in the gaps between the trees lining the open space. Gwaine drew his sword, gave it a few practice swings to warm his arm, pacing and moving to ready his muscles. Gilli took his own plain sword in hand, stood flat-footed and still, facing Gwaine.

Arthur assumed the duties of moderator. "Ready?" he called, waiting for both to confirm before he said sharply, "Begin."

Gwaine rounded on Gilli immediately, dropping two overhand blows on the sorcerer's shield before the third opened a gash on Gilli's left shoulder. Gwaine stepped back a moment, but Gilli swung at him. Gwaine blocked the clumsy effort easily, and took his blade in both hands to strike harder and with more strength.

Gilli dodged at the last minute, and the point of Gwaine's sword came down into the cleft of a sapling. The tree split suddenly, trapping the blade, and Gilli managed a kick to the back of Gwaine's knee and a blow to the back of his head with the hilt of his sword before Gwaine freed his weapon and whirled round.

They circled for a moment, then Gwaine indicated his opponent's wound. "Five-minute respite to see to that?" he offered, and Gilli stared at him dumbfounded before ducking his head in a nod. Gwaine moved back to Arthur. The boy stuck his sword into the ground to cover his shoulder with his hand, and turned away with a poorly-muffled cry of pain.

"Didn't know your own strength?" Arthur said to his knight. "Your quarrel is not with the trees."

"That seemed odd to you, too?" Gwaine said, and turned back to face his challenger again.

Arthur watched them circle each other, Gwaine more wary this time. Only the knight would know if the force he'd put into the blow was sufficient for the damage done to the sapling, but though there was blood on Gilli's torn sleeve, his arm no longer appeared to be bleeding. Gwaine had the most, and the grimmest sort, of training for this style of fighting than any of his fellow knights, so for him to show this amount of caution meant something more was going on than met the eye.

Gwaine struck heavily on his opponent's injured left side, beating down the plain wooden shield in a series of blows that knocked the sorcerer to his back. But as the knight leveled his blade at the boy's unprotected chest to call for his surrender, Gwaine's feet flew out from under him and he landed on his own back with an audible grunt. Arthur shook his head angrily – there was nothing for Gwaine to slip on save grass – for _Gwaine_ to slip on?

The knight rolled away from the sorcerer, on his feet again before Gilli could do more than scramble to put his hand on his own weapon again, and in spite of Arthur's orders Gwaine struck at the fallen boy to kill.

Gilli blocked the blow inches from his face, but Gwaine bore down with the intensity of mature strength and ruthless training. Heartbeats later, Gwaine leaped back with a hiss, inexplicably allowing his sword to clatter abandoned on the earth, shaking his hand in pain. Gilli gained his feet between Gwaine and his weapon, and Arthur's knight pulled the long knife he kept as a secondary weapon.

"Hold!" Arthur called, and Gilli paused in his advance as Arthur moved between them. "Your challenge was for me," Arthur said to the sorcerer. "No, shut up, Gwaine. Gilli, release him from the challenge."

The boy looked at Gwaine over Arthur's shoulder, and some of the fire went out of his eyes. "King Odin said I was to make sure of your death," he said to Arthur. "Without you, he said it didn't matter if Camelot retrieved the trident."

"I see," Arthur said. "Will five minutes be sufficient for you, or would you like more time to recover before facing me?"

"Five minutes," Gilli said.

Arthur turned to push Gwaine out of the clearing. "You do not interfere," he ordered his knight. "Although, if he kills me, you and Merlin make damn sure you get the trident into Leon's hands."

"He's using magic," Gwaine told him, still breathing hard.

"I suspected as much," Arthur said, glancing back as one of the village men retrieved Gwaine's sword.

"He's not going to back down," Gwaine added. "He's determined to prove himself."

Arthur gave Gwaine a half-smile, drawing his sword and swinging it in a circle to his side to ready himself for the fight. "Aren't we all?" he said, and turned to face the sorcerer.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The dark of empty exhaustion gradually gave way to the upwelling surge of returning, recovering magic, and Merlin reveled in the warm satisfaction it brought. Morgana had escaped. Lamia he had allowed to run. But Alice and Elena had been freed – it had been a good day's work.

His stomach growled with hunger and he moved, feeling the give of the cot beneath him and the softness of the blanket without questioning it. The connection with Arthur told him his king was well, and near, and that was good enough for him. He opened his eyes and felt no surprise at the walls and ceiling he saw.

Then a man moved into view, and Merlin scrambled up from the bed against the wall. The man held out his hands soothingly, his expression earnest. He wore a red shirt under a white jacket, and a sleeveless hooded robe over both.

"No need for alarm, Lord Merlin," he said. "I am Julius – you remember me?"

Merlin nodded, glancing around. Arthur and Gwaine had gone, but he felt no sense of alarm or pain – that meant both his friends were safe, just not here. Was Julius acting on his own? Had he slipped into the room unnoticed by Merlin's friends? "Tell me why you're here," Merlin said, moving the blanket and slinging his legs over the edge of the cot in readiness.

Julius gave him a broad smile, and moved to lean against the wall, hands clasped in view in front of him. "I had so hoped that you and I would get a chance to talk in private," he said.

"Make it fast," Merlin warned him. "My friends are waiting on me to continue this quest."

"Yes, exactly!" Julius said, pointing at him as if he'd answered a question correctly. "But is the quest for the trident the most important?"

"I don't take your meaning," Merlin said flatly.

"I have been to the tomb of Ashkenar," Julius said triumphantly, waiting for understanding to come to Merlin's face. "Do you know the legend? Do you know what he hid there?"

Merlin said cautiously, "I remember my father talked of such a tomb. It contained a dragon's egg." _A dragon's egg, ye gods_, had Balinor been trying to tell him something more, even when he was a child? For a moment, it was hard for Merlin to breathe. Why hadn't Kilgarrah said anything? Did he not know?

"A dragon's egg!" Julius crowed. "Where it had lain safe and secure for four hundred years!"

"Why are you telling me this?" Merlin said. "You want me to help you get it?"

"Of course not," Julius said crossly. "Aren't you listening? I said I've _been_ there. No egg." He clicked his tongue at Merlin's obtuseness. "But, I did discover where it now rests." His eyes gleamed with fanaticism. "Ashkenar was, at one time, the court sorcerer for – oh, have you guessed it? – the Fisher King. Whose lands we journey to in quest for his _trident_." He scoffed.  
"And you need me to –" Merlin thought he could guess where this was going.

"Lore has it that young dragons are called into the world by a dragonlord, only they have the power to summon them from the egg," Julius said, and gestured to him. "We could bring this noble creature to life."

"And then what?" Merlin said.

Julius' smile spread. "I'm sure we can come to some agreement."

"I have to tell you," Merlin said reluctantly, "I want no part of your plan. I am committed to claiming the trident for my king in accord with the competition."

"You don't want to release the last living dragon?" Julius said incredulously.

Oh, how he wanted to. And that gave him pause – it was a distraction he couldn't afford. No matter where the dragon egg was, or if it even existed at all, it was safe. A dragon's egg could live for a thousand years – today, tomorrow, next year – it would not hatch without him. Whether it waited in the Perilous Lands or not, whether he found it or whether he could return for it or whether he died trying, it all came to the same decision. One dragon could wait. Merlin could wait. Albion – and Arthur - came first.

"I will – consider it," he said stiffly.

"Think about it – the trident wouldn't matter. With a dragon on our side, we could conquer –"

"I've given you my answer," Merlin said. "I will consider it. Now I think you should leave, sooner rather than later."

Julius nodded, and it was almost a bow. "Our destination is the same, after all," he said. "I am sure I will see you again." He backed to the door and let himself out.

Merlin listened to his footsteps diminish, and flopped back down on his bed. Julius was not a man to be trusted, that much was obvious. Whether the egg was there and Julius got to it first, he would still need Merlin – but then what? There was no way Merlin would leave a tiny new-hatched dragon with the man. He shuddered to think what Julius intended for the poor creature.

And yet, Merlin was inclined to believe him. He'd stood in the room with Merlin asleep, and had not so much as touched him. What need for an elaborate hoax to distract him if a simple knife between his ribs would take him from the quest for the trident permanently?

He shook himself and leaped up, using the water in the pitcher on the stand to wash vigorously, then dressed and thumped down the stairs two at a time. Julius was gone, the common room of the inn deserted. Merlin crossed to the innkeeper behind his counter, picking up an untouched round loaf of bread from a table as he went and beginning to pinch off bites. "I'm starving!" he informed the man cheerfully. "Where is everyone? My friends, they both wore chainmail, where –"

"A challenge was issued," the innkeeper told him. "A young sorcerer wanted to fight your friend. To the death."

A young sorcerer. Gilli. "Where?" he demanded. "When?"

"Now, and outside of town," the innkeeper told him, pointing. Merlin was halfway across the room when the man said, "There's no need to rush – your friend made him take off his talisman of power."

"His focus?" Merlin said, surprised that Gilli would part with it before a fight. The innkeeper held up an amber amulet on a black cord in answer, and Merlin returned to cup the stone briefly in his palm. It was nothing, a meaningless trinket.

Arthur was heading into a duel with a sorcerer, believing him to be magic-less. Merlin turned and sprinted the direction the innkeeper had indicated. He came to the clearing within moments, and searched through the gathered townspeople until he found Gwaine. The knight gave him a sideways glance, and threw out his arm to prevent Merlin entering the arena.

"You can't," he said shortly. Merlin could see that Gwaine wasn't happy. "Challenge issued, challenge accepted – they've got to fight it out."

"Is he using magic?" Merlin said. Gwaine's face tightened; that was answer enough.

In the clearing, Gilli charged at Arthur, but Arthur swung first, hitting the round wooden shield the other sorcerer carried, then knocking the sword from Gilli's hand. The sorcerer stumbled, reaching down to retrieve it as Arthur brought his sword down. Merlin saw Gilli's eyes glow, the silver ring on his hand flashing the same golden, and Arthur's blade plunged deep in the ground and stuck. As the king struggled to free his sword, Gilli straightened with his own weapon in hand and charged again.

Merlin reacted without thinking, snatching the shield out of Gilli's hand as though a careless gesture had caused it to fly loose. The other sorcerer froze, eyes fastened to Merlin' face.

"Hold!" Gwaine called out, hurrying to Arthur's side to help him free the sword. Merlin circled around behind the townspeople, coming to where Gilli had retreated for his breather.

"You should not interfere," Gilli told him.

"You're using magic against a man who has none," Merlin said.

"Without magic, I'm a nobody," Gilli exclaimed. "People think they can kick dirt in my face. It's time for me to - to come out of the shadows, to fight back – I want to feel what it's like to be respected!"

"This is not what we have magic for," Merlin said intensely. "You should learn to use magic for good – that is its true purpose. It's not meant for your own vanity. It's not meant for fighting, it's not meant to bring you glory!"

"I'm not going to apologize for who I am," Gilli said hotly. "You can be a servant to your king, but –"

"I am sworn to protect him and if I must forfeit my honor to do so, then so be it. You should have challenged me."

"I wasn't told to challenge you," Gilli said petulantly, turning away.

Merlin bit his tongue and glanced at the people watching. If he intervened it would have to be surreptitious – Arthur's honor was at stake, also. It had been clever of Gilli to challenge Arthur to a public match.

The king moved away from Gwaine's side, back to the middle of the clearing, ready for the fight to resume. Gilli took the offensive, charging at Arthur again. Arthur blocked the blow, then swung at the sorcerer's unprotected middle. Gilli jumped back and caught Arthur's next strike on his blade, but the king pushed the connected blades down almost to Gilli's shoulder.

The next moment, Arthur's sword was flying across the clearing, and folks were scrambling to get out of its path. Arthur reacted by snatching Gilli's shield away from him as the sorcerer let loose a series of wild, ineffectual blows, each of which Arthur blocked – until the blade bit deeply into the side of the shield, and stuck fast. Gilli shoved suddenly, and Arthur's heel caught, and the golden-haired king was flat on his back. Gilli put his boot on the shield to pull the weapon free.

Merlin reacted purposefully, concentrating his magic, and the sword was stuck fast in the shield. Whether Arthur realized his intervention or not, the king twisted his body on the ground, knocking Gilli off balance and leaving the sorcerer with the encumbered weapon as he rolled to his feet, leaped to retrieve his own sword, and leveled it at Gilli.

"Yield," Arthur said. "Surrender."

Gilli met Merlin's eyes through the crowd, and for the second time that morning, Merlin felt like he had betrayed his kin.

**A/N: Dialogue from ep.3.6 "The Changeling", ep.3.9 "Love in the Time of Dragons", ep.3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow", ep.4.4 "Aithusa".**

**PS. You all have CaraLee934 to thank for the inclusion of "a certain little dragon"… eventually. :D**


	25. All That Glitters

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 5: All That Glitters**

"_Yield," Arthur said. "Surrender."_

"I surrender," Gilli said sullenly, not looking at Arthur.

"You leave the quest for the trident, you do not interfere with any remaining champions," Arthur continued. "Or your honor and your life are forfeit."

Gilli slung the shield-trapped sword to the ground, but made no other move. "Yes!" he spat. Arthur nodded, then turned his back to his opponent to join Gwaine. It was, Merlin knew, the ultimate show of trust in the sorcerer's honor.

He stepped out to approach Gilli. "I'm sorry," he said to him.

"You did what you had to do," Gilli said. Merlin could tell he was angry with him, more than Arthur.

"Yes," Merlin said. "You ought to have challenged me – at least that would have been a fair fight, magic against –"

"A fair fight," Gilli scoffed. "We both know you are far stronger than I."

Merlin pointed, not quite touching the ring on Gilli's hand. "Such rings are rare," he commented. "To wield a ring such as that would need considerable gifts."

Gilli's sullen expression slipped a little, he looked at the ring. "You still would've killed me."

"No," Merlin said, with conviction. Gilli had shown strength and perseverance – but wisdom also, in surrendering. He would not have forced his death at Merlin' hand any more than he had forced Arthur to kill him.

The other sorcerer gave him a skeptical look. "You have killed before," he said.

Merlin flinched. "Yes, it's true," he said. "But only when there was no other choice. I meant what I said, that magic should not be used for fighting. I defend my friends, my king. I defend myself, that I may continue serving him. Arthur is a great man, a good king. He will make the finest of high kings. All great struggles demand sacrifice – I will help him to win this quest, or die trying."

"You know what they say of him," Gilli said, giving Arthur and Gwaine a sidelong glance, as the villagers continued to filter out of the forest toward their daily responsibilities. "The once and future?"

"We did not seek this quest," Merlin said. "Arthur protects Camelot by preventing Annis or Alined, or – no offense intended – Odin, from taking high kingship. And I protect Arthur. That is what I swore to do, that is the purpose of my life."

"I heard what you did in the arena," Gilli said.

Merlin gave him a twisted smile. Everyone, it seemed, had heard of that, and not many accounts were entirely accurate. "Some choices are easy, some stay with you forever," he said. "And some are both. Arthur was the clear choice for crown prince of Camelot – I only did what I could to make that happen."

"You are Emrys, then?" Gilli said, with incredulity. But also, Merlin saw, with hope.

He swallowed. "I don't claim that name. But I know of no one better to unite Albion than King Arthur." Merlin hesitated, watching Gilli. Remembering the other sorcerer's behavior at Odin's side, silent and subservient. Remembering how he'd said _It's time for me to come out of the shadows, to fight back - I want to feel what it's like to be respected_. Seeing how Gilli was dressed, in clothes plainer than his own, how he'd been sent to challenge a man ranked among the top swordsmen in the five kingdoms with – even to Merlin's untrained eye – poor-quality equipment.

"You could leave Odin's employ," Merlin suggested. "You could go to Camelot. Gaius would be happy to teach you whatever you wished to learn. Sir Leon would be more than willing to help you with your swordsmen's skills, also." Gilli snorted in derision and disbelief. "Really," Merlin said. "I'm rubbish at defending myself without magic, but he was very patient with me – he'd be thrilled to have a sorcerer with some actual talent to instruct."

Gilli couldn't quite smother a grin, though he tried. "You don't need to defend yourself without magic," he reminded Merlin.

"Think about it," Merlin urged him. By now they were alone in the clearing, and while Arthur and Gwaine had given them time and privacy, he knew the king would be anxious to continue traveling. "You don't have to remain with King Odin. Under Arthur's kingship, sorcery is respected in Camelot."

Gilli nodded. "I – I never killed a man, before," he confessed. "I thought, if I could do this, maybe I could earn the respect of Odin's court, but this… this isn't me. I'm not a killer."

Merlin held out his hand, and Gilli considered him before taking it. "Good luck to you," Merlin said. "Wherever you choose to go."

"I don't know much about the others," Gilli said. "But from what I've seen of you three – you deserve to win the trident. Good luck to you, too." He added as he turned away, "Emrys."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

There were three horses available for purchase in the small village, once Arthur had flashed his most charming smile, and his gold.

"Don't bother bargaining," Gwaine advised him. The owner of the horses, a wiry man with knobby joints, was busy detailing the finer points of the three mounts for Merlin, who appeared agreeably convinced. Arthur's more discerning eye was dissatisfied.

"Why not?" he said, a little annoyed. "Those three aren't worth half his asking price."

"There's one bridge across the gorge into the Perilous Lands, right?" Gwaine said.

"Unless we travel days out of our way to the east," Arthur said. "Why?"

"Well, our little side-trip through the valley and the cave means we approach that bridge from the southwest," Gwaine went on.

"And your point is –"

"We have to go through Goblin's Hollow," Gwaine said, "to get to the bridge. I don't believe you'll have any gold left by the time we make it to the bridge. You might as well give it to this man." Arthur scoffed, but Gwaine said, "Ask Merlin if you don't believe me."

"We're wasting time," Arthur declared, without agreeing or disagreeing with his knight, and paid the horse-trader's price.

Arthur, for one, felt like a new man as they set out again at a fast clip. Fed and rested and washed and resupplied, it was almost like starting over – a day closer to their goal. Gwaine shared his high spirits, but Merlin was startled more than once out of an unusual reverie by one of their casual questions or comments, as they discussed their competitors – the fate of those that were out of the running, as well as the threat of those that remained.

There was something on the sorcerer's mind, Arthur saw. Something more than the death of the druid, the escape of both Morgana and Lamia. Something more than the magic Arthur suspected Merlin had used against Gilli to help him with that challenge, though he hadn't and wouldn't ask Merlin to compromise his honor or Arthur's to confirm that suspicion. Something more than the question of the prophecies, though it felt odd to Arthur to be actively pursuing the fulfillment of such a thing.

"So what do you know about goblins?" Arthur finally said, to try to rouse his friend out of his melancholy daydreaming.

Merlin shook himself, a motion very like a shiver. "They're a little over knee-high when they manifest," he said. "Greenish skin with black markings like tattoos, black hair worn in a topknot, pointed ears and nose."

"When they manifest?" Arthur said.

"Otherwise you can see them as a glittering light, like the flame of a candle," Merlin said. "Like a sidhe, almost, but with a yellow-orange glow instead of blue. They're fast like a faerie, though, in that form."

"Have you see one before?" Gwaine asked, sounding surprised.

"No. Honestly, do you think Gaius has me picking herbs all day?" Merlin said, flashing them his irreverent grin over his shoulder. "Have you never looked about his chambers? There are books everywhere, and they're not just for show."

"Tell me, Merlin," Arthur said, half in jest, "Can you tell me why Gwaine thinks we'll have problems with them?"

"Goblins are mischievous creatures," Merlin answered. "And dangerous. They will stop at nothing to get their hands on the one thing they value above all others."

Arthur was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he said anyway, "And that would be –"

Beside him, Gwaine flashed his devil's grin. "Gold," he said.

"So what do we do when we get there?" Arthur said. "Bargain our way through?"

"There's a spell I can do," Merlin said. "It's kind of an announcement of intentions, a call for their attention. I think that'll be better than trying to sneak through. I don't think there will be much bargaining, though, I doubt they let us through _and_ let you keep any of your gold."

They rode for a while in silence. Arthur wondered where the other competitors might be. "So, in all of Gaius' books," he began again, "did you ever read anything about the Fisher King, or his lands?"

"Who was the Fisher King?" Gwaine added.

"He was a king who lived many hundreds of years ago," Merlin said, speaking absent-mindedly.

"And?" Arthur had to prompt him to continue. What else could Merlin possibly have on his mind?

"Legend has it he was wounded in battle, and the wound festered. The infection spread not just through his body but through his lands as well. His mighty kingdom was reduced to a wasteland and has remained that way to this very day."

Gwaine made a sound of disgust, and Arthur gave him a twisted smile of agreement. "If I'm ever wounded like that," Arthur said, "go ahead and let me die, for the love of Camelot."

Merlin twisted around in his saddle, letting his horse continue unguided. "Some believe the Fisher King is still alive," he said. His blue eyes were uncharacteristically intense. "Kept from death by magic."

Why did Arthur get the feeling that Merlin was talking about something else entirely? "His own magic?" Arthur said. "He was a sorcerer-king?" Maybe that was on Merlin's mind, the choice he'd had in the amphitheatre, to be a sorcerer-king himself, maybe he was wondering how things would have been different, if not for that choice.

"I heard he had a court sorcerer," Merlin said. He hadn't faced forward again, but his horse didn't seem to miss his guidance. Though Arthur wouldn't be surprised that Merlin was still directing his mount, somehow. "The sorcerer's name was Ashkenar." A thoughtful look entered Merlin's eyes, and he turned away from them, then.

"Ashkenar," Arthur said. "I've heard that name before. There was a game we played when I was a child – a treasure hunt for Ashkenar's tomb."

Gwaine said, "Oi, Merlin, do you believe the Fisher King is still alive?"

"Perhaps," the sorcerer said distantly. "Perhaps not. There are curses that can do that, after all. A task left unfinished, a desire unfulfilled…" He held up his hand, simultaneously reining his horse in.

Gwaine said, "What is it?" but Arthur had also seen the distant wisps of smoke through the trees ahead, over Merlin's shoulder. He didn't rein in until he was level with his sorcerer, and Gwaine halted his own mount on the other side.

"Merlin?" Arthur said.

Gold faded from his friend's eyes, returning them to their customary deep blue. "A fairly large camp, sire," he answered. "A dozen and a half, or so. All armed."

"Bandits?" Arthur sighed. "What are they doing here? This is not exactly a well-traveled area, after all."

"Or mercenaries," Merlin said. "It isn't a permanent camp. They look like they're waiting for something or someone. It could be –"

"Slavers," Gwaine said grimly. Arthur looked past Merlin at his knight. All traces of humor and goodwill were gone, leaving an angry, implacable warrior. "Goblin's Hollow is part of Mercia, much good it does them. And Mercia allows the slave trade."

Merlin gave Arthur a glance, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. Neither of them had questioned Gwaine too closely about his past, as he seemed to appreciate the chance for a new start. But they now knew whom Cenred had purchased their friend from – Jarl, one of the competitors in this race for the trident – and it wasn't hard to guess where Jarl the slave-trader had gotten Gwaine, though the details of that incident were unknown.

"Doesn't explain what they're doing _here_," Merlin murmured.

"Well, if Morgana found it profitable to hire mercenaries to attack us," Arthur said, "Jarl –"

"Would have his men covering the approach to the bridge," Gwaine finished grimly. "Well? Are we going?"

"We're not going to charge them," Arthur declared in exasperation. "Merlin, do you see any way we could get by them unnoticed?"

Merlin lowered his head slightly, his eyes gleaming gold from under the fringe of black hair on his forehead as he studied the land beyond their sight. "Possibly," he said distractedly. "We'd have to dismount and crawl on our bellies a ways – and then hope the goblins don't cause too much of a commotion and alert the slavers…"

Gwaine was glaring daggers at Arthur. "You expect me to dismount," he said, "and _crawl_ past that – that _bastard_ –"

"Yes," Arthur said, in a harder voice than he usually used with any of his knights. "For the same reason we dismounted and ran from the mercenary band before. We have larger issues at stake here than pride or revenge. We don't have the luxury of spending time or effort to risk fighting our way through these men. And you, Sir Gwaine, swore an oath."

Gwaine didn't answer. He sat tensely, gathering up his reins.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Yes, Gwaine had sworn. His loyalty and his service, lifelong. To follow Arthur to death and beyond. He supposed that would include crawling past his worst enemy.

He hated to admit it, but Arthur was right. It was past midday, and they should cross into the Fisher King's lands by the time they had to make camp for the night again. They had no idea what awaited them there, but it wasn't smart for the three of them to exhaust themselves physically and magically fighting men that might turn out to have no connection to Jarl at all.

He nodded shortly, and they followed Merlin from the path. Finding a small sheltered glen, they hobbled the horses and left them, not knowing whether they'd even be able to return for them, but it was their best chance for having mounts waiting to carry them back to the rulers' pavilion. They each slung saddlebags and bedrolls over their shoulders, and set out on foot.

Merlin wasn't exaggerating when he said they'd have to crawl on their bellies. It was a tiny dry creek bed only a stone's throw from the slavers' camp. Gwaine could smell woodsmoke and unwashed bodies – they could even hear snatches of conversation, though not the familiar hated voice he'd been expecting. They sounded like they were waiting for someone, just as Merlin had suggested – more than one person, though _they_ were late, and _she_ wouldn't be happy about… some eventuality that Gwaine wasn't clear on.

He crawled on, the heels of Arthur's boots twisting in his face, sweat dripping into his eyes, trying not to sneeze in the dust their bodies dislodged, trying to ignore the larger stones grinding beneath his ribs.

Then the voice he still occasionally heard in a nightmare said, "What have we here?"

Merlin yelped, and Gwaine raised his head in time to see a large sturdy net flung over the sorcerer in the lead, enveloping and restraining him. The young sorcerer wriggled like a caught fish, and several men were thrown off their feet – several others leaned over the bank with aimed crossbows.

"Merlin!" Arthur barked out. "Easy – take it easy! Stop!" The king flipped on his side, and turned his eyes from Merlin, panting and struggling but no longer using magic, to the slaver standing over them.

Gwaine turned over, too. Jarl stood grinning, showing rotted teeth, his fists on his hips spreading the bearskin mantle to full effect. "There's my champion," Jarl added, eyeing him evilly. "They haven't been working you hard enough in Camelot, I see. Soft duty. You've put on some pounds, haven't you? But I know just the way to sweat that off."

An intense craving gripped him, to leap to his feet and drive his fist into the slave-trader's face, his knife into the man's gut – but he knew how well that would be accomplished with all Jarl's men standing about with weapons of their own. And ready crossbows.

But he had an idea. "Arthur will pay you for me," he suggested to Jarl. "Won't you, Arthur? You'll give him all your gold."

"He'll give me all his gold anyway," Jarl sneered. "But it don't make much difference. I have a deal, y'see, with the witch. I get to keep you, boy, and she gets them other two." He sighed theatrically, and snapped his fingers at Arthur. "Much as I'd love to sell a king… pass up your purse, there, m'lord, or your sorcerer is gonna have a couple holes in his hide. The witch don't care what condition he's in."

Gwaine heard Arthur shuffle his weight on the dry streambed, his armor clinking slightly as he loosened his purse from his belt.

"You all right, Merlin?" Gwaine dared raise his voice to say. "Little like being buried beneath a hedge, wouldn't you say? Pity we can't call our little green friends for help –"

"Shut it," Jarl growled. "A fighter don't need a tongue, after all."

"Pity Aredian isn't here, either," Gwaine continued, hoping Merlin could see sufficiently through the gaps in the net. The coins clinked in Arthur's purse as he hefted it. Gwaine could not hear that Merlin was struggling anymore.

"You could just let us go," Arthur offered. There was a certain note of confidence in his voice that made Gwaine hope that the king had caught onto his plan. Now it was up to Merlin –

"Toss it up here, nice and gentle," Jarl ordered, beckoning.

Gwaine tipped his head back to see the little leather pouch high in the air, and then Merlin was hollering spells, and all was chaos.

The purse exploded, sending gold coins flying in all directions. Some of the slaver's men scrambled to retrieve coins, others ducked out of the way. Flashing through the flying coins were a handful of misdirected crossbow bolts, and tiny sparks of orange-yellow light. Harsh inhuman voices called ecstatically to one another.

The net that trapped Merlin burst into flames, sending more slavers diving for cover or shielding their eyes.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried low nasal voices. The goblins, just as Merlin had described them, green skin and tattoos and all, hopped over the streambed, from branch to branch through the trees, even using the bodies of the men as perches, scrambling for the gold coins.

Merlin struggled free of the burning net, none the worse for wear in the element he was most comfortable with. Arthur scrambled to his feet, reaching to pull Gwaine up also.

He saw one goblin licking the gold coin in his grasp. He saw slavers suddenly go bald, sprout donkey's ears, even break out into boils. Then he and his friends were sprinting down the dry streambed out of the confusion, Merlin still flinging aside bits of smoking rope.

"You let them escape!" A female voice shrieked above the chaos, and Gwaine looked over his shoulder to see black-garbed Morgana glaring at Jarl. She flicked her wrist and his body tumbled back against a tree, flopping to the ground with his head at an impossible angle, eyes open but vacant of life. Morgana lifted her head as Gwaine darted after Arthur, out of her view.

They didn't stop running. More than once Gwaine glimpsed a flitting yellow light or a green-skinned face peering at them from a tree as they thundered through the hollow towards the gorge and the bridge that led to the Fisher King's lands.

Then Merlin tripped spectacularly, his body actually turning in a somersault before he skidded to a stop, his blue eyes wide in his soot-begrimed face. Arthur had to perform a leap not to run right over him, and slipped to a sitting position in the fallen leaves. Gwaine had enough warning to be able to slow himself in time, and turned to jog back to the others, leaning over his knees as all three of them gasped for breath.

"You all right, mate?" Gwaine managed first. Merlin nodded, beginning to grin in an _I-can't-believe-what-we-just-got-away-with_ way.

"Was that Morgana I heard back there?" Arthur said. "And by the way, Gwaine, helluva good idea, that."

"Worked, didn't it?" Gwaine said, his heart still pounding fit to burst in his chest. "Yeah, that was her. Think she'll follow us?"

Merlin twisted around to gaze back up the hill. "She isn't yet," he said.

"Best keep moving, though," Arthur said, striding down the hill.

Gwaine reached to pull Merlin to his feet. "That was a little bit insane," the sorcerer told Gwaine, his eyes still gleaming with excitement.

"We make an excellent team," Gwaine said, grinning back.

"Wouldn't miss it!" Merlin finished, and they followed after Arthur.

**A/N: This chapter a little shorter than its predecessors, but I thought a break with a cheerier chapter might be nice…especially with what's coming up…**

**Some dialogue from ep.3.3 "Goblin's Gold", ep. 3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix", ep.3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow".**


	26. The Keeper

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 6: The Keeper**

Arthur held up one gloved hand to signal Merlin and Gwaine, and as the king knelt to study the situation they were heading into, Merlin crouched to look over his shoulder.

There was the bridge, maybe thirty feet long, suspended over the gorge – from here it looked like nothing more than a simple rocky drop – but he'd heard the bottom was not even visible, but shrouded in mist. The bridge was formed of rough-hewn branches, stripped of leaves and twigs but left round rather than planed to a flat surface. A fence wandered out from either side of the bridge along the gorge, it's upright stakes of the same construction as the bridge though not as tightly knit.

To the left of the bridge was a mud-and-bark hut with a thatched roof and no windows, quite ordinary but for its size. Merlin guessed the peak of the roof would be no higher than his chin, and if he were to enter it with the intention of sleeping there, he would be forced to extend his feet out the doorway if he wanted to stretch out his full length.

Outside the hut was a stone-ringed firepit, a blaze crackling in a lively way that told him it had just been fueled or tended. Above it a small kettle was suspended from an iron tripod, and steam issued from the pot. Rabbit skins had been draped over the fence at random intervals, either drying or waiting for use.

Throughout the clearing, dangling from strings made of strips of cloth or leather, from tree branches and between the slats of the fence, were dozens of skull of small animals – birds, squirrels, rabbits.

But no person was visible.

"Merlin?" Arthur whispered.

He _looked_. "I don't see anyone," he said, but the back of his neck was tingling.

Arthur considered for another moment, then gave Gwaine a series of hand-signal commands. The knight nodded and moved around to the left, probably to scout the little hut more thoroughly. Arthur looked back at Merlin, pointed at his chest, then the ground. That was clear enough – _you stay here_, that signal said. Arthur himself approached the bridge slowly and cautiously, hand on his swordhilt, though he did not draw the weapon.

"Who is it that wishes to cross my bridge?" said a voice, and Arthur paused, gazing down at someone who was hidden from Merlin's view by the king's body.

"I'm on a quest to find the Trident of the Fisher King," Merlin heard Arthur say. He didn't sound angry, or wary, or – _concerned_, exactly, but Merlin shot to his feet and skidded the rest of the way down the hill in a hurry to reach his king's side.

"Then you must be Courage," the stranger's voice said.

"No, I'm Arthur of Camelot," Arthur said, sounding hesitantly amused, as Merlin slid to a stop at Arthur's side.

The man on the bridge was of a size to find the hut sufficiently roomy, the leather cap on his head not reaching the height of the fence leading to and providing hand-support for the one-person bridge. "So Magic has arrived," the little man quipped, giving him a froglike smile.

"What?" Merlin said, confused.

"There is nothing to be afraid of," the little man said. "Your presence is essential if Arthur is to succeed on his quest."

"Who are you?" Merlin said. And why hadn't he been able to see the man standing there, sense his presence? He still couldn't sense his presence, though he was looking right at him, just as he hadn't sensed Taliesin in the cave.

"I'm Grettir, the keeper of the bridge." The little man came forward to extend his hand to Arthur, who still seemed somewhat bemused, but shook the little man's hand anyway. Grettir did not offer to touch Merlin. "I have to say," he said to Arthur, "you're not as short as I thought you'd be."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said. "Have you heard of me? Have others passed this way seeking the trident?"

"Who hasn't heard of you," Grettir said obliquely. "As for others –" Gwaine charged through the shrubbery at the edge of the clearing, jogging to them. "Ah, finally. Strength has arrived," Grettir said, with some private amusement. "The trio is complete."

"Who's he?" Gwaine demanded, yanking his sword from its sheath.

Grettir's eyes glowed gold even as Arthur reached across Merlin to stop Gwaine, and the bared blade in the knight's hand flopped as a beautiful cluster of white lilies on a long green stem.

"I mean no harm to you," Grettir said curtly, "and I'd thank you to mean no harm in return. Before I let you pass… a riddle or three. A word of advice for you to answer. King Arthur."

Though Merlin's eyes remained on the small bridgekeeper, he caught Arthur's questioning glance toward him. Then the king said, "And if we answer incorrectly?"

Again the wide froglike smile from the little man. "There is another bridge to the southeast."

"That's three days' travel on foot from here," Gwaine protested, the long-stemmed lilies dangling from his hand.

"Then I suggest we answer our riddles correctly," Arthur said to both of them.

"I don't see that we have to," Gwaine said stubbornly, "what's he going to do to stop us just going over the bridge?" Merlin turned to him deliberately, dropped his eyes to the sturdy-steel-turned-flimsy-flower in the knight's hand, then quirked his eyebrow. "Yes, well…" Gwaine mumbled, then sighed. "Yeah, don't guess I'd want a bridge turning into daisies just as I'm trying to cross."

"Well, Grettir," Arthur said. "I am in something of a hurry – pose your question."

"_Bestows a higher honor, deals the last dishonor, too_," Grettir said. "_Ensures peace to me but may bring war to you. A chosen fall… is sacrifice true_."

Honor, dishonor, war and peace, falling and sacrifice. Merlin thought of Arthur. The King. He could bestow honor, but he'd also have to pronounce a sentence of dishonor on a guilty criminal. A king was responsible for the peace of his kingdom – but sometimes that meant going to war. But falls and sacrifice? Beside Merlin, Gwaine shifted his weight impatiently and uneasily.

"A sword," Arthur said.

Grettir's thin lips twitched as though he wanted to smile. "Explain," he invited.

"A king bestows honor with his sword, raising the rank of a knight, a noble – but the sword is also designed to bring death, the _last dishonor_," Arthur said. "A sword in my hand ensures peace for me and my people, but if necessary I will protect that peace by going to war – again symbolized by the sword. And the last line – a choice to _fall on your sword_ is a metaphor for making the ultimate sacrifice."

Arthur sounded quite stern and kingly by the time he finished. Merlin's heart beat with pride for his friend.

"The rules in the land that you're heading to are quite different to those in the world that you know," Grettir commented obscurely to Arthur, standing aside and gesturing the king's welcome to cross.

Arthur took two steps beyond the bridgekeeper, then paused, looking back. "What of my men?" he asked.

"Fear not, King Arthur," Grettir answered with a sly smile. "They'll be along shortly –" Gwaine snorted at the somewhat unfortunate choice of words, but Merlin thought it was more due to the tension of the situation, than any desire to ridicule the little man. Grettir turned his eyes back to the knight and finished, "Or not."

"Thank you for your help," Arthur said, and continued reluctantly, boots sounding on the rounded wooden slats, ropes complaining as they stretched under his weight, the whole bridge swaying even after he'd gained the other side, out of sight among the trees.

That put Merlin on edge. Of course the bridge was meant to be crossed one person at a time, but that made it an excellent point for ambush, also, if one were so inclined. He focused on the connection he shared with Arthur, and relaxed minimally to find it unchanged.

Gwaine cleared his throat, menacing Grettir with his lilies. "Where's my sword?" he demanded. Merlin guessed the knight was feeling the same tension of letting his king out of his sight, while his best weapon had become a bouquet.

"It will return to you once you reach the other side," Grettir said, unperturbed. "Let us hope that you find some sense as well. Your riddle, Sir Knight."

"Let's hear it," Gwaine growled.

"Yours is quite simple, yet not at all easy," Grettir told him. "_Once given, it must be kept. Once broken, forever wept_."

Merlin knew it almost immediately. What else could be given, kept, broken. Simple, yet not easy. He thought Gwaine had worked it out fairly quickly, also, but for some reason balked at giving the answer. _Sword_ for Arthur fit. This riddle fit a knight, also, but the tone of the little verse carried a distinct warning – echoing Arthur's stern words of barely an hour ago, commanding Gwaine to set aside pride and revenge, to put the quest, the greater good, above his feelings and desires. _And you, Sir Gwaine, swore an oath._

"A man's word," Gwaine said grudgingly. "A promise. An…oath." For answer, Grettir once again moved to the side. Gwaine started to pass him and step out onto the bridge, but paused and adjusted his grip on the flower's stem. "I apologize," the knight said quietly. "For this." Grettir nodded, and Gwaine crossed the bridge, out of sight to Arthur's side, presumably.

Then the little bridgekeeper regarded Merlin, and his very short stature, his odd dress and cap, the calculation in his gray eyes, the wide flat frogs-smile that held no warmth or genuine mirth, reminded Merlin that Grettir was a creature of magic, as was Taliesin, Kilgarrah…Anhora. Enigmatic. Cryptic. Concerned more about Merlin's destiny than his feelings or well-being, even his life. Grettir had controlled them, manipulated them since they had stepped into the clearing.

What was the bridgekeeper's purpose here? To guard the entrance to the Fisher King's lands? Was there so many that wished to cross, then? Or had he just been – waiting?

"May I please have my riddle, so I can cross?" Merlin said, his voice hoarse and his heart beating hard.

Grettir studied him a moment longer, then opened his mouth and uttered, "_Confined in safety, with freedom comes danger… One word to control, familiar stranger_."

Merlin closed his eyes, deepened his breathing. Who was safer when restricted? Anyone from babies to murderers. One word to control – well, didn't parents use the word _no_ as one of the earliest commands to their children. And he'd seen horse-handlers and dog-trainers perform similar feats with their charges. But familiar stranger? Again, maybe an infant – bonded with its mother before birth, but everything still new after that moment?

But what did babies have to do with him?

Safely confined, dangerously free, one word – what if it was a word of magic? Magic itself might be the answer – but most spells used more than one word, and lots of Merlin's magic didn't need words at all. Beside him, the sticks shifted under Grettir's cookpot, and the flames crackled softly. His favorite spell – _forbearnan_. One word. Fire – another thing that was safer contained, and dangerous when loosed. His familiar element, yet still completely alien to a human being.

Fire. And magic. And babies – the young. Familiar kin. Magic-users and…dragons. Uther had contained Kilgarrah. To a certain extent, his own abilities recalled the legacy of the danger of uncontrolled dragonkind roaming the land… Kilgarrah was the last, and he no longer roamed.

The egg. The unhatched dragon. At once an infant, and a fire-breather. Safe while still in its egg, terribly vulnerable once it was hatched. One word, its name, to call it forth and place it under his authority as its lord. Familiar as he was with the species, the new little one would still be a stranger to him.

Merlin opened his eyes and was unsurprised to find that the bridgekeeper's strange features were blurred by his own tears. He blinked and opened his mouth.

"You need not speak," Grettir said, and his voice came closer to kindness than it had since Merlin had first heard him. "I see the answer in your mind. Do not forget it. I only wish to see the Fisher King's lands restored and prosperity reign again."

Merlin rubbed the moisture from his eyes with the cuff of his jacket. "Then why did you block our way? Why give us riddles that could turn us back if we didn't know the answer?"

"The answers were necessary advice," Grettir said. "You will see. The words will be a guide to you to complete your mission."

"It's not my mission," Merlin objected. "It's Arthur's. We must bring the trident –"

"If that's what you choose to believe." Grettir cut his eyes sideways with a secretive smirk. "It was no accident that brought the rulers of the five kingdoms together, nor that they chose the trident to represent the prize. It was no accident that Arthur chose to tread this path himself, as it is no accident that you follow him. There is more than one quest that is pursued. They are not incompatible."

"My priority is to help Arthur with the trident," Merlin said stubbornly. "I was told of the fabled dragon egg, but I cannot allow the distraction."

"It is the sacred duty of a dragonlord to protect the last of the dragons," Grettir observed.

"It is my sacred duty to protect Arthur," Merlin snapped back, shuddering involuntarily. The egg, wherever it was, remained safe, nigh indestructible. It would keep, it would wait for his voice. He could return, couldn't he?

"This is your one chance," Grettir's voice lowered almost to a whisper, "of saving the dragons, preserving their kind…"

"Why is it you want me to get that egg?" Merlin said. "Why should it matter to you, either way? What does that egg – or the trident - have to do with the Fisher's King's lands being restored to prosperity?"

"The Fisher King has waited many years for this day," Grettir said, not arguing. "Do not deny him what he wishes."

"But I have nothing to give," Merlin said, thinking it rather outrageous that they were speaking of a man who'd been born centuries ago. Would they somehow have to purchase the trident from a ghost? And what did the riddles have to do with that?

Grettir gave him the frog's smile, waving him onto the bridge. Merlin was halfway across when the little man called to him, "Remember, nothing is as it seems." He turned, but the little bridgekeeper was gone as if he had never been there. The fire crackled and the pot bubbled, and one tiny bird skull clicked softly into another as the breeze stirred them on their strings.

Merlin shivered and crossed the bridge without looking back again.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur paused at the end of the bridge, but couldn't hear what the others were saying, and couldn't see them clearly through the trees. They weren't in any danger he could protect them from, however, so he turned, and found he could see, through a break in the hills, the Fisher King's country. The Perilous Lands.

He walked forward a couple of yards, breaking from the forest to stand at the head of the sloping pass between the hills. It lacked a few hours until sunset, but a haze in the west stained everything the dying sunlight touched a brassy orange, a blood-yellow.

It looked as if a massive forest fire had decimated the countryside, right up to the hills of the pass. No grass, no underbrush, nothing green showed. Just the bones of a once-mighty forest, bleached and white, some still pointing vertical, most lying scattered on their sides.

Lovely place for a quest.

His hand already rested on the hilt of his sword, and he gripped it tighter. What had been meant by the riddle? A king carried a sword, this wasn't news to anyone. A king held the lives of his subjects in his hand – life or death, war or peace, reward or punishment – this also was an accepted fact. It was the last line that bothered him. A chosen fall. A sacrifice.

He'd learned enough from Uther to realize that a king's life was one sacrifice after another, putting his own wants, desires, needs second to what was best for the kingdom, on a daily basis. But was _falling on a sword_ meant to portend a literal future, one figurative event, what? He heard Gwaine's approach – the knight had a subtler, stealthier tread than Merlin – but didn't turn.

"I hate riddles," Gwaine groused, but gave no further explanation, and Arthur didn't ask for one. "Cheery place, isn't it?" the knight said, gesturing at the vista of desolation that spread before them.

"The perilous lands are – perilous," Arthur said, amused. "I can't see any movement, can you? If anyone is ahead of us, they must have reached the tower already."

Gwaine grunted, squinting against the sun to examine the land. "Did you hear what he called us?" the knight said absently. "Courage, Magic, Strength?"

"It's what Anhora said as well, isn't it?" Arthur said. That had been a year ago, now, that they had emerged from the labyrinth to its keeper's cryptic words.

"It's – odd," Gwaine said. "D'you…d'you think that – _I_ might be in a prophecy or two?"

"Absolutely not," Arthur answered with immediate conviction.

Gwaine looked at him with a sideways grin. "Why not?" he said.

"Because no one in their right mind would make a prophecy about you, Gwaine," Arthur teased. "You'd probably turn around and do the opposite of whatever it was, just to be contrary."

Gwaine looked offended for a single instant, then smiled. "Yeah, probably," he agreed.

"Anhora also said something about the master being linked to the land," Arthur said.

"It was in the blood-contract, wasn't it," Gwaine said. "Why are you worried about that? It's a pretty standard oath when you're being crowned king, right?"

"Do you remember what Merlin said about the Fisher King?" Arthur said. "His infection spread not just through his body but through his lands as well. What if –"

"What if what?" Gwaine said.

"It bothers me that a king's wound can cause this kind of damage," Arthur said, gesturing to the wasteland spread before them.

Gwaine scoffed. "That's just a story, Arthur. Looks more like a fire went through here."

Arthur shook his head. "Even after a fire, a few years pass, things start growing. Five years, ten years, twenty – you wouldn't even be able to tell there was a fire. But _four hundred_ –"

"It depends on what kind of fire it was," Merlin said from just behind them, and both warriors jumped like startled rabbits, Arthur perversely glad that Gwaine hadn't heard the sorcerer's approach, either. Merlin's eyes were locked on the dingy-yellow landscape, and he didn't take notice of their reaction.

"About time you showed up, Merlin," Gwaine teased. "Stop to chat with the bridgekeeper?"

"Comparing notes on how to turn pointed metal objects into beautiful blossoms," Merlin said, but his tone was vague and his eyes still faraway. Arthur wondered what Merlin's riddle might have been. "This is it, then? The Perilous Lands?" Merlin's eyes glowed golden for a moment before he said, "It doesn't look too friendly."

Arthur started hiking down the hill, through the pass to enter the Perilous Lands. Behind him, he heard Gwaine say, "That's because it's not, mate. It's wretched."

"How do you know?" Merlin said. "You've never been there." Arthur was pleased to hear his friend sounding more like his normal self.

"I've traveled to many places, Merlin," Gwaine objected, bringing up the rear.

"Not the Perilous Lands, I know that," the sorcerer shot back. Arthur grinned. The next-best thing to sparring verbally with Merlin was listening to him take on someone else – and Merlin seemed about the only one able to take Gwaine down a peg or two. He glanced back up.

Gwaine paused atop a rock outcropping, hands on his hips. "Why?" he challenged.

Merlin looked up to give Arthur an impish grin. "There are not any taverns," he said clearly, throwing out one hand to point at the abandoned land they were approaching.

Gwaine chuckled, conceding Merlin's victory with good grace. "I told you it was wretched."

The feeling of camaraderie that bolstered Arthur's spirits, renewed his courage and banished his doubts was slowly drained as they entered the dead lands. It was hot, the sky like an inverted copper bowl above them. Merlin stripped his jacket off and rolled the sleeves of his blue shirt above his elbows, but Gwaine and Arthur suffered in their chainmail.

Before they'd traveled an hour, Arthur was quite sure he no longer had a single stitch of dry clothing on him. Sweat dripped from his face, and the cloying stench of death and decay only increased the oppressive heat. And then, just as the sun touched the edge of the world, Arthur stepped from a hillock down to a sunken patch of dry earth, darker than the rest of the dusty terrain, one of several such that dotted the plain.

Instead of jarring comfortably on the surface of the earth, the first step took him thigh-deep into the viscous liquid of a sinkhole or quicksand, the dry earth rocking as it floated atop the waves his body created. His initial reaction was annoyance.

"Arthur!" Merlin said, jumping over a whitened trunk to reach him.

"Stay back," Arthur ordered wearily, shrugging off his the bedroll and saddlebags he carried over his shoulder and tossing them to higher ground. He struggled to bring his other foot forward, to clamber out of the treacherous pit. But that step never landed on solid footing, and Arthur tipped his face up as black sludge surged up around his ears and chin.

"Gwaine!" Merlin shouted, dropping to his knees at the edge of the deceptively smooth patch of earth, reaching for Arthur.

He pulled his arm out of the muck, but his fingertips were a good two feet short of Merlin's. The sorcerer twisted on his knees, grasping a length of thick brittle vine and shoving it out to Arthur.

Gwaine's shadow fell across Arthur. "That won't hold his weight, Merlin," the knight called. "We're going to have to find something that's not going to crumble into splinters when –"

Arthur pulled the vine into his grasp; it felt strong as rope to him. Merlin's eyes flashed gold as he leaned backwards to avoid being dragged into the sinkhole by Arthur's weight.

Gwaine leaped to Merlin's side to help him hold it. "When a sorcerer's got his hands on it," he finished, ironically. Together they pulled Arthur inch by inch from the muck and he lay between them, gasping in the fetid air, Gwaine on his back to Arthur's left and Merlin's elbow even with his eyes on his right.

Now he really _was_ soaked through.

"That bridgekeeper showed you how to turn stems back into steel, did he?" Gwaine gasped.

Merlin's huff of laughter stirred the dead yellow shards of grass beneath his face. "He might've given me some pointers."

"Here," Arthur decided. "Here is where we camp for the night."

Merlin organized a small campfire, as the heat of the day vanished quickly once the sun was beyond the horizon. Gwaine took stock of their supplies and rationed what they had for three days – one day of travel to reach the tower, one day to return, and one day for whatever they might find when they got there.

Merlin said, "I'll get your dinner and your bath ready for you, sire."

Arthur laughed, lying full-length on the ground. His limbs felt heavy and lethargic since his dip into the quicksand, though he'd removed the chainmail to aid his clothes in drying. "Much as I'd love that, Merlin, we don't have the water to spare."

"Would you like me to clean your sword at least?" Merlin said, and his voice was different, somehow. Too casual. Arthur wondered if Merlin was thinking of the riddles, again, and what the sorcerer's might have been about. If Arthur was worried about the possibility of choosing to fall on his sword, it was a safe bet that Merlin was, too. That was something he'd prevent at all costs, Arthur was sure. He doubted he'd be able to make that choice for sacrifice, with Merlin around.

"Thanks," he said only, drawing the sword. Merlin pulled his sleeve down over his hand and began to wiped Arthur's blade with the material of his shirt. "You don't really need to," Arthur objected. "It's not that good of a sword. Ordinary. Average. Gets the job done, but –"

"Yes, you're probably right," Merlin mused, giving the length of the blade a critical glance before resuming his polishing of the weapon. "But it's _yours_."

"Are we sure this fire is a good idea?" Gwaine said, from his seat on a fallen log next to Arthur. Residual light was fading gradually, the sky darkening to a thick gray. "If there are any other competitors about –"

"We can take it in turns to stand watch," Arthur said. "There's –" he counted silently in his head – "Five enemies left."

Gwaine coughed. "Four," he said, glancing apologetically down at Arthur, who raised his eyebrows. "I'm – quite sure that Morgana killed Jarl as we were escaping."

Arthur stared at his knight, calmly admitting that revenge upon his worst enemy had been lost to him. Merlin shook the dirty sleeve back and set his hand briefly on Gwaine's shoulder.

Arthur tucked one hand behind his head; that raised him high enough to stare into the flickering fire. "All right, four," he said. "Merlin." The sorcerer raised his own gaze from the flames, and the flickering reflection in his eyes gave him the weirdly beautiful appearance of performing magic. "Have you anything to add?"

Merlin held his eyes. "I don't believe Morgana will follow us here," he said then, ducking his head to continue wiping the now-clean blade.

Gwaine said, "What makes you say that?"

"In the cave, she told me," Merlin paused, "the rules didn't say that a team had to stay together. She said, my queen's cause advances as we speak. I took that to mean that she had sent Helios on ahead. She persuaded the bandits to attack. Then, in the cave, she had Alator doing her work for her – she left Elena, Lamia, and Alice to delay and distract us, and made a deal with Jarl to use his men against us."

"Is she avoiding us?" Gwaine said.

Merlin opened his mouth, then shut it again without saying anything. Arthur remembered the fear on Morgana's face as she backed away from Merlin. As Alator said the name, _Emrys_. Was it Merlin that Morgana was avoiding? Jarl had said, she didn't care what condition he was in…

Arthur said, "Seems she'd rather have someone else do her dirty work for her. Stands to reason she'd wait at the bridge to ambush whoever returns with the trident, especially if she'd already sent Helios on ahead." He wanted to add, _what else, Merlin_, but decided against it. If Merlin wanted to share with them whatever had been bothering him all day, he would. In his own time, and his own way.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine knew something was eating at Merlin, had been since the fight with the other boy-sorcerer first thing that morning. After Gwaine revealed the death of the slave-trader, which the other two had been unaware of, he found himself wondering what had happened to Merlin in the time after they'd left him sprawled and snoring on his cot upstairs at the inn and before he'd caught up with them in the clearing.

"All right, mate," he said. "Spit it out." Even if Arthur was oblivious to Merlin's internal turmoil, Gwaine wanted to know what was on his friend's mind.

"Spit what out?" Merlin attempted wide-eyed innocence and a guileless smile.

Gwaine wagged a finger at him. "Don't try that, Merlin. There's something, and we both know it."

Merlin glanced down at Arthur as he laid the sword at his side, but Arthur remained silent, and Merlin dropped his eyes to his long fingers, twisted together. "There is something," he admitted. "But it's a – personal concern." He darted a glance at each of the warriors from under the black fringe of hair across his forehead. "I promise to tell you all of it, if it comes to have a bearing on the quest."

"Merlin, if it's a concern for you," Arthur said evenly, "then it's a concern for –"

The king was interrupted by a long unearthly screech from the darkness toward the Fisher King's tower. Inhuman and as unnerving to hear as steel drawn across slate, yet still fairly distant. Arthur bolted upright, laying his hand on the weapon at his side.

"What was that?" Merlin said, and it interested Gwaine to realize that while the young sorcerer's voice held fear, there remained room for curiosity, also.

"A pheasant," Gwaine suggested, reaching to add another stick to the fire without taking his eyes from the darkness.

At his feet, Arthur snorted. "A pheasant?" he said incredulously.

"A very big one," Gwaine insisted, to keep the joke going. The screech sounded again, raising the hair on the back of his neck and sending his pulse skittering though the threat was distant. It lengthened, amplified, and Gwaine amended, "Three pheasants."

"At least," Arthur said sarcastically. "A bloody _flock_."

Merlin whispered, "A _clan_."

**A/N: I wasn't sure if I should cut off here or continue, so next chapter might be quite a bit longer… not really any action here, no enemies crossed off the list… but that's coming.**

**Dialogue from ep.3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix". And pheasants for everyone! :P**

**PS. To answer some questions in advance: the riddles are (fairly) original, though some concepts or phrasing might be similar to other riddles you may be familiar with. I started with the answer I wanted and worked my way backward through the phrasing of the riddle. Also, Merlin's last line is meant to refer to the species causing the noise (we all know what it is, but they haven't figured it yet for this story…) but I couldn't get a straight answer on what a group of these guys is called – a wing, a flight, a clan, a weyr… so I just picked one.**


	27. Perilous Lands

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 7: The Fisher King**

It took the three of them several more hours the next morning to reach the end of the blasted forest of bare bleached trunks, avoiding the sinkholes hidden by patches of dark earth. Arthur's chainmail felt stiff, donning it after his submersion in the pit, but at the edge of the seared country, where the rocky cliffs rose to the heights upon which the tower had been built, there was a small stagnant pool with stunted brown reeds standing along its verge.

Merlin dipped one finger in the water, tasted it, then spat. "It's no good to drink," he told them. "But it should be fine for washing."

Arthur was tempted to immerse himself once again, to get the dried crust of filth from clothing, skin, and hair, but they had no time for that, and he couldn't afford the distraction and discomfort of moving or fighting soaking-wet. He contented himself with rinsing hands and head, as the other two did, then they continued on.

It wasn't a sheer climb. None of them were ever in any danger of falling, though Merlin once reached for a ledge that turned out to be loose, and had to freeze the chunk of stone midair before it crashed down on Gwaine's head. And when they reached the top of the steep bluff, they faced ground that was dusty and stony, but not as treacherous as the rest of the land had been.

"There it is," Gwaine said needlessly.

The tower was close, and Arthur began to realize its size. It could take them a week to search, if they dared split up, and if the trident wasn't hidden. Beyond the tower a silver expanse crawled and glittered under the late morning sun.

The sea, Arthur realized, as Gwaine added, "Well, he is called the Fisher King for a reason."

And above the tower – "What's that in the sky?" Arthur asked ominously. It looked rather like a flock of rooks circling one of the towers of Camelot. Except that the Fisher King's citadel was basically one enormous tower, so these winged creatures, whatever they were, must have been the size of a horse, at least. "They're not birds." There were more than three. Lots more. And that was just the ones that were on the wing.

"I've never _seen_ creatures like that," Gwaine said.

"I have," Merlin said. His voice sounded hollow, and Arthur glanced quickly over to see his sorcerer pale.

"You – ah!" Gwaine said. "I had heard… I should have known…"

"What are they?" Arthur demanded.

"Those must be wyverns," Gwaine said. "Distant cousins of the dragons."

Arthur watched the pattern of the flock – the _clan_ Merlin had said, had he guessed? – it looked very like – "Looks like they're hunting something," he said, pointing. There was a tiny figure, far below, close to the outer wall of the tower complex. Something flashed just above the figure.

"What was that?" Gwaine said.

"A sword," Arthur answered, and headed down the slope, down the sunken ruin of what had once been a wide thorough-fare.

"Well, we know at least one of our competitors arrived before us," Gwaine remarked, catching up to him. Merlin loped alongside, his long strides keeping up easily with the warriors. His silence bothered Arthur, though.

"_Lord_ Merlin," Arthur said, stressing the title lightly. "Any advice?" The tiny figure had disappeared into the shadow of the barbican; it was only a matter of time before the three of them became the center of attention for the wyverns.

"I don't know if they'll listen to me," Merlin said grimly. "But I'll try."

Gwaine drew his sword, and after a moment, Arthur did as well. Again came the steel-on-slate screeching they'd heard the night before in the dark, and it set Arthur's teeth on edge, this close. He lowered his center of gravity and increased his pace. He wished he had a shield, now.

One swooped low, and he slung a blow at it, then twisted to aim at a second, shrieking from the side. To his left, Gwaine set his feet and readied his sword.

"Don't stop!" Arthur hollered. Outnumbered as they were, the wyverns could take their time attacking, one after the next, til the three humans were exhausted with holding them off. Gwaine glanced at him and nodded, a grimace of determination on his face as he swung twice and missed.

To his right, Merlin suddenly bellowed one long command, or a string of short ones, Arthur couldn't tell, but the flying creatures hovered instead of diving down.

"Go!" Arthur commanded, waving Gwaine ahead. "Go!" Gwaine made a dash for the barbican passage and Merlin twisted to shout at one wyvern who dove for the knight behind their backs.

Arthur slashed again at one who attacked from the left, stepping backward toward the wall. Merlin retreated also, more slowly, only stopping his furious flow of commands in the dragon language to gasp for breath, holding out both hands in warning.

The wyverns twisted and swirled in the air, shrieking in agitation. They displayed not the compliance of a pack of dogs to the kennelmaster's voice, but rather the instinctive wariness of wolves surrounding a lone man with a torch. The wyverns stayed just far enough away from the young dragonlord to pose no serious threat, but it was obvious that their obedience was grudging, and if he faltered –

Arthur reached out and yanked Merlin back into the barbican passage, both of them running to the portcullis that Gwaine was trying to lift by sheer strength and willpower.

"I'm sorry, they're resisting me," Merlin gasped, stumbling into Arthur, who righted him and bent to the task of helping Gwaine lift the heavy portcullis. "They're _stupid_ creatures, they don't understand the words, they don't respond –"

"It's all right, Merlin, we made it this far," Arthur said shortly, as the iron gate rose a foot off the ground. Gwaine huffed and modified his hold, and it lifted another half a foot. "Down you go, and under," Arthur commanded and Merlin obeyed, dropping to his belly to wiggle under, then jumping up to help hold the gate in place.

"Sire," Gwaine grunted. Arthur flattened himself and rolled under the rusty iron teeth that studded the bottom of the gate, then bent next to Merlin to hold it up for Gwaine.

"Come on come on come on," Merlin groaned, and then let the portcullis fall with a clang as Gwaine scrambled clear.

Two of the beasts crouched at the end of the passage, watching them go, hissing. And judging by the flitting shadows in the courtyard, more were waiting for them to emerge. Arthur wondered briefly where the other champion had gone. They eased cautiously up to the mouth of the barbican, and he glanced around. No one in sight, no clear indication of which way was best to go.

"You want to split up?" Gwaine asked. "If Morgana didn't cross the gorge, there's only two warriors –"

"And a sorceress," Merlin reminded them. His chest was heaving, as though he had just run the entire length of the land.

"The trident is most likely to be in the tower itself," Arthur said. "Which should be safe from these vermin." One wyvern swooped low enough to brush the opening with the tip of a wing, shrieking fit to scrape their eardrums. "Head for the tower," Arthur added, adjusting his grip on his swordhilt and preparing to propel himself to the middle of the courtyard to draw the most attention so the other two could make it to safety.

But Merlin's hand shoved his shoulder back against the crumbling stone as the sorcerer leaped out into the open, himself. His voice, to Arthur, sounded deeper and stronger than all the wyverns' screaming protests combined. Even knowing that his sorcerer's slender frame was capable of more enduring strength, sustaining greater power than he himself was probably aware of, Arthur also recognized that Merlin was only human.

"Go!" he commanded Gwaine again. It was too late for any other strategy.

Arthur raced behind Gwaine as he headed for a doorway guarded by a sagging door. The knight burst through the half-rotted wood, but Arthur, a few lengths behind, ducked as a shadow loomed and an outstretched wing clouted him. His feet lost the broken pavement scant seconds before his shoulder found it, and he tumbled several times before he was able to regain his feet.

Merlin was still shouting somewhere behind him, though the dragonlord's voice sounded more like ragged pleading sobs than stentorian commands. Gwaine had disappeared somewhere to his left. Arthur darted through an archway, slid to a half-heartbeat pause at another exposed yard, changed direction and pelted down a walkway covered above, yet open on the sides, ending in a low-ceilinged space, its vast distances obscured in gloom, broken by short squat columns that three men with their arms outstretched could not encompass.

Wings thumped and claws scratched and disappointed keening followed him as he trotted further into the chamber, heading toward the main tower. Whatever passageway Gwaine found must surely lead into this area. Arthur did not hear Merlin any longer, yet trusted that his friend was in no danger.

He heard a sibilant whisper, like scales on dusty stone, and slowed his steps. There were probably snakes in this place. He needed his knight and he needed his sorcerer, and a stair leading upward. No trident visible here. No enemies, either, though he wouldn't risk raising his voice to call for his friends.

He crept silently through the chamber, alert, searching, making sure nothing escaped his notice. The detritus of centuries had accumulated at the base of the walls, the columns. If he looked more closely, he thought he would probably see bones.

A shadow moved in the dusky dimness, and he rounded a column with stealth. He heard voices, but not words, and it seemed to him that one of the voices was feminine. Girlish, disarming. Sorceress, he thought, even as his body reacted in relaxation. His heart rate and breathing slowed, his hand lowered his sword, even though he willed his feet to keep moving.

There, down an avenue between the columns. A slip of a girl in a tattered purple dress, thin-faced and empty-handed spoke to a warrior, a knight with shoulder-length dark hair. The knight seemed relaxed as well, his sword still sheathed and his hands hanging limply at his side as the girl sidled closer, at once innocent and seductive.

He stopped walking and just watched. There was no need for more, the girl's voice was so soothing, a susurration smooth as silk. She reached for the knight's cheek.

Another voice spoke, stern and commanding. A shadow as slight as the girl but taller by a head vaulted over a low wall into the open corridor-space. Like the girl, the newcomer was empty-handed, but in contrast to the feminine voice which lulled him into stillness, body and mind, the new voice woke a golden awareness deep inside him, and he stepped forward. The lanky frame was familiar, the shaggy black hair, and if he were asked the boy's name, he would say –

At the girl's side, the knight reached out and shoved the boy so violently in the chest that he fell sprawling backward. The look on his face, in that instant – the look on _Merlin's_ face – was not anger or hurt or betrayal or fear or even shock… but resignation. And that was worse than anything else.

As he increased his pace and opened his mouth to shout – something, he didn't even know what words to use – Merlin's eyes gleamed gold, and the knight was knocked backward out of the avenue. The skinny girl hissed at merlin with her whole body, and as he raised his hand, she spun – and the girl was gone.

In her place was a monstrous black shadow with enormous snakelike appendages and a bulbous head the size of Arthur's whole body.

It began retreating toward him, supporting itself on several writhing tentacles, while more caressed the pillars to the sides, and still more had snagged Merlin's ankles to drag him bodily along the stone floor.

Arthur didn't slow. He bent to catch up a longer weapon from the floor – a spear a javelin a damn splintered _pole_ for all he knew – and rammed it through the center of the gelid mass in front of him with all his strength.

The thing screeched in pain and despair, whipped around on him with glowing green eyes the size of his palms. Merlin spoke, this time in the Old Language, and the monster rolled sideways into the stone wall, curling up on itself like a spider at a puff of air. It spasmed twice, then all its boneless limbs collapsed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine woke as he hit the floor. Disoriented, he lay still and didn't immediately try to move. Despite the unearthly screeching of the – wyverns? but it was _dark_ he was _inside_ the tower – he heard Merlin's voice and recognized the cadence of a spell. That was all right, then. He was safe, Merlin would make sure of that.

He blinked and flinched as a monstrous shape rolled past him, and he felt the tremors in the stone as it hit the wall and then stilled.

He sat up, turning to get his knees under him, then his feet. "What happened?" he said into the silence. His sword was still in its sheath, the last thing he remembered was running down a hallway with Arthur behind and Merlin –

Gwaine turned. Merlin lay sprawled on the filthy stone of the floor, propped on his elbows. He had seen this, in a dream, through a haze of green – he put out his hand to help his friend up, and froze.

His hand. Against Merlin's chest…shoving him down. He felt an echo of contempt and hatred, someone had told him – he shuddered, it was so wrong. Merlin's expression, as he looked up at Gwaine, was not angry or wary or hurt but calm. Accepting, as though he waited to see what Gwaine would do, not preparing for defense. At the edge of his vision to his left, Arthur jammed his sword back into his sheath and approached them.

"I did that, didn't I?" Gwaine said to Merlin, in horrified disbelief. He squatted down by Merlin's feet, his hand still held before him as if he couldn't reconcile its actions with his intent. "Merlin, I'm sorry, I'm so, so –"

"Gwaine," Merlin said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "I know. It's fine." Arthur passed his own water-skin down to the young sorcerer, who took two slow swallows.

_I'm sorry_, Gwaine said again in his own mind_. I swear, I will never let anything happen to you again, if I can prevent it._

Then Merlin grinned at Gwaine, and nothing had changed between them. "We have _got_ to find you someone to fall in love with," Merlin quipped. "So you can stop listening to these sorceresses."

Gwaine shook his head, and Merlin reached to grasp his hand. Gwaine stood, pulling his friend up with him. "I'll have you know, I have been in love several times," he argued, returning Merlin's smile.

"Several times a week," Arthur observed wryly. "And that's not love. Come on. Let's not stay here any longer than necessary." As the king started down the row of columns, Gwaine and Merlin following, the king threw a glance over his shoulder. "So that was Lamia? And now she's dead?"

"She was _a_ lamia," Merlin corrected softly. "A creature of magic. In their wars with the ancient kings, the high priestesses of the old religion took the blood from a girl and mingled it with that of a serpent. The creatures they created had ferocious powers. They could control the mind of a man, suck the life from him with a single embrace."

Gwaine opened his mouth to make a joke about some barmaids doing the same thing, but found his mouth and throat too dry, his equilibrium still too unbalanced. It had almost happened to him.

"But the lamia proved more deadly than their makers had ever imagined," Merlin continued. Gwaine swore he would never again make fun of the young sorcerer using what he'd previously termed the boy's _Gaius voice_. "They could transform at will and become hideous monsters."

"Hideous is right," Arthur said without turning. He sounded grim, and Gwaine didn't blame him a bit. "You said _they_. Are there more such creatures?"

"No," Merlin said. "She said she was the last."

Gwaine, for one, would sleep easier, knowing that.

They came to an arched doorway and a stair that led upward, curving as it followed the shape of the tower. There was more light the further up they went, coming through the crumbling arrow-slits on their right. Gwaine paused at one and searched the sky, but it was free of wyverns. For the moment. He wondered briefly where they had gone.

Behind him, Merlin said, as if deliberately lightening the tone of the quest, "Arthur, do you know where the trident is?"

"If I did," Arthur said, a little breathlessly after the climb, "there wouldn't be a problem, would there?"

"Any clues you can give us?" Merlin asked, and Gwaine could hear the irreverent grin in the sorcerer's voice.

"This is a quest, Merlin, not a treasure hunt," Arthur said.

"Why can't it be both?" Merlin said.

The stairs ended in a long open gallery, and at the end of that were three directions to choose from – another open hallway to the left, a small storeroom in the center, and a half-stair leading to a larger, darker room on the right.

"Shall we split up now?" Gwaine suggested, and as he said _now_, twin screeches of fury sounded just behind them as the glaring red eyes and slavering jaws and rough leathery wings of more wyverns burst into the open gallery.

Arthur lifted both arms to shove Gwaine and Merlin to the sides as he fell through the doorway into the storeroom and kicked the door shut. Gwaine heard Merlin's boots on the stairs, and regained his balance to sprint down the open hallway, looking for a way to circle back to his friends. More of the dragonish creatures beat their wings along the passage, trying to find purchase with scrabbling claws to enter the hall or to snatch him out.

Sword in hand, he caught the end of the corridor's wall, slinging himself around the corner to hurry carefully, cautiously, but swiftly, back toward that central storeroom, aware that there might be two enemy warriors prowling these otherwise deserted halls.

He stopped at the entrance to a larger room with a sunken floor, listened, then turned to follow the wall to the right, through another doorway – and stopped, seeing the ugly knobby claws, the gray-green skin and the folded leathery wings of two wyverns creeping forward.

Gwaine wrapped his fingers around his hilt and moved forward noiselessly, crouching til he was almost crawling. He could take them from behind, but if they heard him before he could strike –

Through the doorway was the storeroom, he saw Arthur on his back, half-lying atop a mound of sacking, the fallen door rocking over one of the king's legs as the nearest wyvern stepped onto the rotten planking. He saw no blood, but the king blinked dizzily as though he'd been injured, and he seemed to be making no great effort to ready a defense. Gwaine steeled himself as the wyverns crept closer to Arthur.

Then Merlin spoke, "_Nun de ge dei_ –" and the young sorcerer strode down into the storeroom to stand over the king's body, weaponless, and spit the rough-sounding words at the creatures, "_s'eikein kai emois_ –" looking from one to the other – "_epe'essin hepesthai_!" harshly berating them. The ugly gargoyle faces dropped lower, and both slunk back from the storeroom.

Merlin knelt beside Arthur, and Gwaine saw the nearest wyvern turn back, a murderous gleam in the red eye. He leaped out to ram his sword into the creature's side, just behind the foreleg. The dying shriek shredded the air in the tiny storeroom, but only for a moment before the wyvern wallowed dying in its blood, then lay still.

Merlin gave Gwaine a brilliant intimate smile, before turning to help Arthur sit. "Are you all right?" he said.

"I think so," Arthur said. "The door didn't hold them – knocked me flying. I must've hit my head." Merlin's fingers combed gently through Arthur's blonde hair. The king hissed, but Merlin released his hold with a smile of encouragement – it couldn't have been that bad. "What did you say to them, Merlin?"

Merlin sat back on his heels. "I told them they must obey me and go out from here."

"It sounds so much fiercer when you say it the other way," Arthur commented.

Gwaine chuckled. "I'd tuck tail and run if Merlin ever scolded me like that." He reached forward to help the sorcerer pull their king to his feet.

"Hm," Arthur grunted. "I must remember that the next time you're late for training because of a hangover."

"Oh, no," Gwaine groaned, imagining the young dragonlord roaring those phrases at him, his head pounding and his stomach churning already.

"Anyone see the trident?" Arthur said, blinking at the floor as he regained his sense of balance.

"There's another stair over here," Merlin suggested, and fell in behind Gwaine as they started upward once again.

This time, instead of circling widely with the curve of the tower, the stair spiraled tightly in an ascending column, each step a triangular block of stone. Even setting his feet at the widest part next to the wall, part of Gwaine's heel hung over the edge. They passed several rooms as they climbed, but a quick glance was sufficient to show no trident, and no other doorways leading elsewhere.

Behind him, Merlin said in an odd voice, "Wait, look at this. Looks like a throne room."

Gwaine paused and turned, hands braced to keep his feet from sliding off the narrow step. Merlin left the rising spiral of the stair to cross a brief antechamber and peer through the doorway. Gwaine jumped down to the antechamber. Merlin's curiosity was good enough reason for him to give the room a second glance, and Arthur descended without protest as well.

Then Merlin stepped into the doorway, and his boot seemed to sink into the stone – or the stone into the floor – a grinding noise sounded, and Gwaine reached to shove Merlin again, forward and out of the way, as a stone slab slammed down, cutting off the doorway.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin stumbled into the room but turned as the slab thundered into the floor, slapping ineffectually at the barrier. "Arthur!" he shouted. "Gwaine!" He listened, but there was no reply. No sound.

He cursed, almost sobbing. Wasn't it bad enough that the vision from the crystals had come true with Gwaine pushing him down? _Himself, following Arthur up the winding steps of a narrow tower, pausing at an unremarkable doorway._ What else would come true? Visions, riddles… how the hell was he supposed to use any of it for the good? He slapped the stone slab again.

There was a sudden throb through the gold of his connection with his king, who remained alive and well, though worried and determined, within a few feet of the door. It calmed him. Well, great. How long would it be til they could find the workings to raise the slab? He turned to survey the room. At least he could do something useful like search, while he was imprisoned.

It was the first room with any furniture. A throne-like chair, intricately carved and inlaid with gold and dust, the gray of old stone or old wood, was placed with its high back to Merlin and the door, facing a window.

He stepped forward, leaving bootprints in the dust covering what must have been a beautifully paneled floor. He was homesick suddenly for the warm oaken gleam of Camelot's council chamber and the great round table Arthur had recently installed. Great curtains of cobwebbing hung everywhere – the outlines of ceiling, walls, throne alike were smudged by the clinging webs.

"So, Emrys," a dry voice whispered. He froze for an instant, but it was not the voice of either Helios or Julius. And it had come from the throne. "You are here at last."

Merlin gave the throne a wide berth as he circled to face it, and its occupant. The man seated there might have been a partially-mummified corpse, covered with wrinkles and cobwebs, his skin the gray of the dust and the stone, the gleam of his crown and his rings obscured by centuries of tarnish. But his eyes were alive, and he turned them from the window to Merlin.

He felt no fear. Only awe and a sort of quiet exultation. "So you are alive," he said softly. There was no reason to speak louder, in the silence of the room, and he felt as if a shout might cause the king to crumble.

"For now," the Fisher King said. His eyes traveled slowly over Merlin, head to toe and back up again. "You are very young," he observed. "And yet there is the sorrow of years in your face." The eyes sharpened. "You have discerned a crystal, have you not?"

Merlin felt somewhat awkward standing while the other was seated, and tired as well, so he sank to his knees in front of the ancient king. "I have discerned a caveful of crystals," he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Ah!" the king said, a dusty groan of a word. "You have spoken to Taliesin, then, unless I'm much mistaken."

"You knew him?" Merlin said.

"He was a traveling bard." The Fisher King's eyes moved slowly back to the window. "He was ever a welcome guest in my land. But those were better times."

"What happened?" Merlin said, then added, "Your Majesty. If you don't mind my asking?"

The old king's head swung ponderously. "Emrys. How can I mind any question you choose to ask?" He looked at Merlin from under dusty brows. "I had a friend, once. A brother. My sorcerer."

"Ashkenar?" Merlin guessed, and the Fisher King nodded.

"I lost him, too early," the king reminisced softly. "He was an amazing sorcerer, so talented. So secretive. His tomb contained – such treasures. There was one that I – coveted." This time Merlin bit his tongue on his guess, but the king nodded as if he had said it aloud. "The dragon's egg. Yes, I entered the tomb of my friend to gain that prize for myself. I should have known that my friend would protect that egg with the strongest of enchantments. A curse I brought back to my land, and myself." He gestured toward the window. "I have lived now, so long, without my friend…"

"A curse?" Merlin ventured. Was it a curse that he could lift? "The legend goes, you were wounded…"

"The curse drew the wyverns," the Fisher King sighed. "I was wounded, in trying to drive them off, but that is not what caused the devastation of the land. You have journeyed here – you have seen the result of generations of that pestilential twist of dragonkind. It is ironic – I have needed and waited for one man, while my land became a place that would strive to keep this man from coming to me."

"Emrys?" Merlin guessed, a heaviness on his heart.

The old king cocked his head and his lips quirked minutely. "A dragonlord. Only such a man can take this egg and call the hatchling forth. Only then will I and my land be released from the curse – I will no longer be required to guard the egg with everlasting life, and the wyvern clans will be dispersed, back to the mountain fastnesses. And now, my time can finally come to an end."

"My lord," Merlin began reluctantly. "I have not come here to claim that egg."

"You would deny your birthright?" the old king asked. "You would deny the truth of the riddles told you by my gatekeeper?"

_Riddles_. "They weren't all meant for me?" he said, aghast.

"Your magic is a sword in your hand," the Fisher king told him. "To be used for honor, or dishonor. Judgment is in your power to give, peace is within your grasp to achieve. The sacrifice is your decision to make, your oath the vow to be kept."

"I don't understand," Merlin whispered.

The king's expression remained unperturbed. "In time, it will become clear to you. I have been waiting all these years for the arrival of a new time," he said. "You have brought him, Emrys. The once and future king."

It was one thing to ask Kilgarrah to use his birth name, repeatedly, in exasperation, it was one thing to cut off Freya and others who brought up the matter. It was one thing to groan to whatever echo of personality Taliesin had been, _not you too_. But this man, this king of old, Merlin knew deserved his utmost respect and attention. He could not resist the Fisher King calling him by a name out of prophecy.

"I have heard these words before," Merlin admitted.

"And you will hear them again," the king told Merlin. "That time is dawning."

_ The time of Albion is upon us, and you face what may be your greatest challenge yet, young warlock. Perhaps there is a reason you were brought here at this moment in time…Emrys is a man destined for greatness, who will one day unite the powers of the old world and the new and bring the time that the poets speak of…_

"That is why you were brought here." The Fisher King noticed Merlin's quick scrub of his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, and smiled gently. "This is not only Arthur's quest… it is yours, also. Your quest and his are twined so tightly that they are one. Arthur thinks the prize is the trident… he is not entirely wrong, but the real prize is something far greater. I've kept it safe these years waiting for the right person to claim it."

Muffled thuds sounded from the door, the noise of stone rubbing on stone. "That'll be –" Merlin said.

"Your friends," the Fisher King breathed, "Courage and Strength, I know."

The stone slab lifted a few feet off the floor.

**A/N: Dialogue from ep.3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix", and 3.8 "Lamia."**


	28. Thrice Treasured

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 8: Thrice Treasured**

Gwaine pounded the slab that blocked the doorway with his fist and cursed. Not yet an hour, and already he was failing in his promise to protect Merlin.

"There's got to be a way to open this," Arthur reasoned, feeling around the edges of the slab. Gwaine copied his actions on the left side of the doorway, moving toward the outer wall of the antechamber, testing each block of stone.

It was slow going. They didn't even know what they were looking for, or even if there was a way to release the door. They might be wasting their time here, but they might spend hours trying to find an alternate entrance to the room, if there even _was_ one. Gwaine reached the corner, and turned his attention to the flagstone floor – if one had depressed, dropping the slab that blocked the doorway, perhaps another might be the key to lifting it.

Meanwhile, he _had_ to believe that their young friend was fine. Trying, maybe, from his own side to move the obstruction.

"Here!" Arthur said at last, stone grating on stone as he pried one of the blocks in the wall to the right of the door free. It was a tight fit, Gwaine saw as he stepped to Arthur's side, and didn't slide free easily.

"Do you think a knife blade might help?" he asked, miming a levering action.

"It's coming," Arthur said. "I think, if we reach in here, we'll be able to find something to release the door. It was the only block that was fitted in place, not mortared. There might be a lever, or –"

The block rasped loose, spilling out a startling variety of insects from whatever space there was behind the wall. Beetles, centipedes, all manner of creeping thing. Gwaine made a sound of disgust, and Arthur made no move to reach into the hole left vacant by the block removed.

"You were saying?" Gwaine said, and grinned. "Go on then, don't be a princess."

Arthur gave him a half-hearted glare, but then again, the king was wearing gloves. He reached into the space, his revulsion clear on his face. "There's probably a system of weights and counter-weights," he said, bending slightly to extend his arm into the infested hole in the wall up to his elbow. "I think – yes –"

The slab grated slightly upward, and Gwaine resisted the urge to drop to his belly and peer through the few inches of clearance. "Try again," he suggested.

"You try again!" Arthur snapped. Then the slab groaned and shuddered upward, its bottom edge rising to knee-height.

Gwaine had a sudden recollection of the portcullis slamming down once they let go of it. "Is it going to stay?" he asked.

Arthur tentatively removed his arm from the hole, brushing the insect population from his sleeve. The slab did not move. Gwaine knelt down. There was Merlin, kneeling near a dusty old throne like a child at the foot of a storyteller. He saw Gwaine and beckoned to him.

"He's there – he wants us to come inside," Gwaine reported. "Shouldn't one of us stay out here, just in case this slab falls again?"

"Let's stay together," Arthur decided, dropping to his belly to crawl forward. Gwaine followed him swiftly, wincing as he imagined what would happen if the catch released…but it held, and Arthur led the way to Merlin – who remained on his knees.

"So, Arthur of Camelot," a dry voice wheezed.

Gwaine watched Arthur's shoulders seize with tension, and he moved around the king, around behind Merlin, hand on his sword in case there was an enemy but leaving it sheathed because of what had happened with Grettir –

He froze in shock as he saw there was someone seated on the throne. Not either of the remaining warriors, but a man whose skin blended with the dust, whose clothing was covered with spider-webs. Gwaine shuddered, thinking of the man – the Fisher King, for who else could it be? – kept alive through magic only, sitting in the same place unmoving for so long the spiders crawled freely before even they abandoned him. Sitting for endless years, not eating or drinking or sleeping or – it was _mad_.

"You have come at last," the old king breathed, his eyes devouring Arthur's face and form greedily, Arthur's youth and vitality in strict contrast to the old monarch.

"Your Majesty," Arthur said, bowing with his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Dust trickled from the armrest of the throne as the Fisher King raised the fingers of one hand. "Please," he said, his voice like dry leaves blown along cobblestones in the wind. "King Arthur. You need not stand on ceremony with _me_."

"You know my name," Arthur said.

The gray lips twitched slightly. "I do. I have been conversing with your sorcerer," he said, turning his eyes back to Merlin on his knees, and Gwaine almost laughed. While he and Arthur had been frantically looking for a way to free their friend from an unknown prison, Merlin had stopped to chat with the shell of a man who should have died centuries ago.

"You have a rare gift," the king went on, though Gwaine wasn't sure whether he was still speaking to Arthur, or now addressing Merlin. "Treasure him."

Gwaine twitched with impatience. _Ask him for the trident, then let's get out of here_, he silently advised Arthur – or Merlin, whoever had the best chance of persuading the old man to help them. The Fisher King's eyes rose to Gwaine's face, and he felt as if a bucketful of icy water had just been dumped down his neck.

"Sir Knight," the old man whispered, over the sound of Gwaine's own heart pounding. "You are welcome. Invaluable is your aid and support to your friends on this quest."

"Speaking of the quest, my lord –" Arthur said.

Merlin straightened, turning toward the king. "Arthur –"

"No, Emrys," the Fisher King rasped softly. "Your king is quite right. Time moves apace, and Albion yearns for unification."

"We have come seeking your trident," Arthur said, gesturing, and Gwaine noticed that instrument, still held in the old king's left hand, over the armrest of the throne by his side. _Well, of course_, he thought. _The Fisher King whose kingdom is on the coast, what other emblem do you expect him to rule with_? Gwaine wondered if, in his day, this king had ever gone sailing, had ever thrown a net or baited a hook or flung a trident more suited to its actual purpose than the tarnished golden symbol in his hand.

"The rulers of Albion have agreed," the old king sighed, turning his head laboriously to stare down at the implement in his grasp, cobwebs linking the shaft of the weapon to his hand and sleeve, dust in the creases of his fingers. "The champion who returns with this trident wins the anointing of his sovereign as high king of the five kingdoms."

"That is so," Arthur said.

"Yet you did not send a champion in your stead." The Fisher King's eyes returned to Arthur's face. "You have come yourself. You have risked, you have fought, you have suffered. Why is that, young king?"

"I would not send another to die in my place," Arthur said. "I would not ask one of my men to perform a duty which I was unwilling to do myself."

"Sometimes," the old king whispered, "sometimes the duty of a king requires that he allow another to make that sacrifice."

Gwaine couldn't help shivering. Arthur reached out to place his hand on Merlin's shoulder, still kneeling beside the young king and before the elder.

"I have sensed an evil today in the bowels of my citadel," the Fisher King said. "An evil, it saddens me to say, that I fought in my time, but was unable to eradicate completely."

"A lamia," Merlin said. "She was the last, Majesty."

The Fisher King's head dipped forward once in acknowledgement. "In gratitude for this deed," he said, "I offer you the trident."

For a moment, no one said anything, and no one moved. _Grab it and go_, Gwaine thought. Then Arthur, without turning, lifted his hand from Merlin's shoulder to signal Gwaine to retrieve their prize. He bent to take hold of the trident at the top of the shaft, grimy with dust and webbing, but as his fingers closed about it, the king spoke again.

"If this is all you seek, take the trident and go," the old man said. "The symbol of my cursed reign is an inauspicious one to unite your kingdoms under. But perhaps you sense that you were not brought here by the trident alone. Perhaps you are aware that you are truly seeking something else."

Gwaine turned without rising, now in a position to see the faces of his friends. Arthur stared at the old king, as expressionlessly intent as Gwaine had ever seen him, facing down Uther Pendragon in a towering rage, or the entire obdurate council of Camelot. He supposed this was the look Arthur had worn when listening to the complaints of the other monarchs, the proposition for this quest, in the pavilion.

Merlin, however, had his eyes lowered, biting his lip as he half-turned toward Arthur. Whatever it was on Merlin's mind, Gwaine realized, the Fisher King knew what it was.

"Answers," Arthur said. "The truth."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur could sense Merlin's distress, though he didn't understand it. They had the trident, there in Gwaine's fingers, with permission from its owner to take it and go. Three of them, and three other combatants left, all they had to do was make the return trip to the pavilion. But… the old king was right. There was something left undone. Something that Merlin knew.

"Answers," Arthur said. If they claimed the trident and returned with it in their possession, Albion would be united, under his rule. It would be _proof_, and then they would _know_. "The truth."

The wrinkles lining the old king's face deepened. "Confirmation of the fulfillment of prophecies," he sighed. Beside Arthur on his knees, Merlin shuddered. The Fisher King closed his eyes. "The once and future king, destined to unite Albion for a golden age of peace. Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, giving his life at the side of his king to aid to guide to protect. It is a heavy burden. The responsibility. The authority. The power. Life and death in your hands. War and peace. Five kingdoms." The Fisher King opened his eyes again. "Humility," he whispered, "is a trait that is rare in a young man."

The old king lifted his hand, palm down and fingers spread, and turned eyes the color of dust on Gwaine. Arthur's knight leaned forward, extending his own arm for the Fisher King to grasp, rising with the trident in his other hand as the last of the ancient kings stood from his throne for the first time in generations, perhaps.

Arthur was immediately at his other side, offering his arm for the older king's support, also. "Come, Your Highness," the Fisher King said to Arthur. "There is a wonder I would be privileged to present to you."

The old man nodded to Merlin, now on his feet – past Merlin – and the young sorcerer turned, scanning the wall only a few feet behind him. He glanced questioningly at the Fisher King once over his shoulder, before turning to place his palms against the stone at chest height, leaning into his push – and the wall opened, two panels groaning and raining dust as they parted. Merlin stepped forward, pushing the doors until his hands were outstretched, arms fully extended. He stood still a moment, gazing at whatever was in the room beyond – Arthur saw a vast empty darkness, a single shaft of light, and the back of Merlin's head.

Then his sorcerer stepped to the side, turning to look at the Fisher King – to look at Arthur – and _bowed_. Arthur's heart almost stopped.

The old king shuffled forward, a hand each on his forearm and Gwaine's, but he barely realized it. In the center of the floor, in the shaft of light, a massive uncut boulder of granite, and rising from the solid stone was a foot of double-edged blade and the hilt of a sword.

In a place where everything was smothered in dust and hung with cobwebs, the sword gleamed fresh and bright – and sharp, too, he did not doubt. There was a gold inlay on the blade, marked with runes, gold wire wrapped the leather grip. The slender cross-guard arced outward slightly, and on the pommel was the sigil of a full sun. Arthur was vaguely aware of Merlin moving around them, to the side of the stone, but he himself was too preoccupied with the magnificence of the sight to entirely comprehend the significance of it.

The Fisher King halted about six feet short of the stone. "Many years ago, before the birth of the five kingdoms, this land was in an endless cycle of bloodshed and war. But one man…" The old man's voice whispered away to silence, and he nodded once at the young sorcerer.

"One man was determined to end all that," Merlin took up the story. "He gathered together the elders of each tribe and drew up plans for their lands to be divided. Each would respect the others' boundaries and rule over the land as they saw fit."

Gwaine snorted from the Fisher King's other side. "That didn't last long."

"Indeed, Sir Knight," the old man breathed. He stood as still as the stone itself, and his hand was like a skeletal claw on Arthur's sleeve. "It lasted as long as the original oath-makers, the last golden age of Albion. But his kingdom, Camelot, has remained to this day." He shifted slightly, not quite looking at Arthur. "You know the story."

"Every child in Camelot does," Arthur said. "The man was Camelot's first king, Bruta, ancestor to all that followed…"

"Except you, Arthur," Merlin said.

It was true. Uther Pendragon had died childless, and though he bore the name Pendragon, Arthur was the son of a knight and a commoner, who'd battled for the throne and crown with first his sorcerer, and then both sorcerer and knight at his side. Bruta's line ended. He shivered – what did that mean? A new golden age…

"When Bruta was on his deathbed," Merlin continued, his eyes on the sword, the gleam of sunlight from steel reflecting in his eyes, "he asked to be taken deep into the forest. There, with the last of his strength he thrust his sword into a rock."

"The rock was lost many years ago," the Fisher King said, and Arthur shook his head at what the old man might consider _many years_. "But – I managed to find it. This sword in the stone forms a test. Only a true king can pull the weapon free – the king destined to unite the lands that Bruta divided. The once and future king."

There was silence in the dim cavernous room. Then Gwaine said, "Go on, then, Arthur."

Arthur didn't move. Merlin stepped forward, reaching without making contact, circling to the opposite side of the stone, wide-eyed as a child with fascination. "It has great power," he said softly, almost to himself. "On one side it says, _Take me up_, and on the other, _Cast me away_." Then he stretched a little further and touched the hilt, the heel of his hand against the cross-guard, his long fingertips against the sun sigil on the pommel.

"_Merlin_!" Arthur hissed.

The young sorcerer gave him a cheerful grin. "Don't worry, Arthur. I'm not a king, I can't pull it free. See?" He grasped the hilt and tugged. The sword didn't budge.

The Fisher King took his hand from Arthur's arm. "It waits for you, King Arthur," the old king declared in the ghost of a once-strong voice. "Go claim your destiny."

Merlin pulled his hand back as Arthur stepped close, his heart beating hard in his chest. He dragged his eyes up from the shining gold and steel to meet the frank blue of his sorcerer's gaze. "The sword is stuck fast in solid stone," he told Merlin.

His friend smiled wryly. "And you're going to pull it out. Prove yourself a leader and a king."

He lifted his hand, paused, then deliberately removed his glove. His fingers felt like they were trembling, but he couldn't see it when he checked. "It's impossible," he said to Merlin. "I'm going to look like a fool." He waited for Merlin to speak, to encourage, to look at him with that absolute conviction in Arthur's ability that he often lacked. Somehow Merlin's trust seemed to result in Arthur's accomplishment of the impossible.

Merlin didn't disappoint. His smile deepened, at once gentle and impish. "You aren't just anyone, Arthur," he said softly, as if they were alone. "You are special… you're the true king."

Arthur turned his hand, wrapping his fingers around the hilt, not as Merlin had done, to test the stone's hold on it, but as he would grip it to wield it, or to draw it from a sheath at his side. The leather and gold wire felt warm beneath his skin, and he thought, somewhat illogically, that he should have washed his hands before touching it. He hesitated – _this is insane, that I should dare such an ancient thing_…

"Have faith, Arthur," Merlin whispered. His eyes shone with the fierce light of magic, but blue rather than gold. "You're destined to be Albion's greatest king. Nothing, not even this stone can stand in your way. You have to believe, and you and you alone can draw out that sword."

He looked into the face of his sorcerer, so young and so wise, so pure still after all they'd seen and done together, and drew the sword from the stone.

The movement was smooth, as though he slipped the blade from between layers of silk rather than granite, the edge and the central ridge alike free from even a tiny grain of clinging stone, polished and flawless. The leather felt comfortable in his hand, the gold wire blending artistry and practicality so his hand would not slip, and his grasp would not falter. It was a weapon for ceremony – and for battle. Beautiful, and… _his_.

A tear slipped down Merlin's face, which neither of them felt in the least self-conscious about.

It begged to be used, to be tested, to become even more familiar, and he hefted it, stepped back to spin it at his side, to perform a diagonal slash, to bring both hands to the hilt and pause in a stance of attack, before straightening. "It has perfect balance," he said over his shoulder to Gwaine, who was grinning like an idiot.

"Albion's time of need is near," the Fisher King said. His eyes were on the sword in Arthur's hand, so Arthur couldn't tell who he was speaking to. "In that dark hour, you must be strong. You can save her, but you will need help. And that is what I am giving you."

"You have my deepest gratitude," Arthur said. He turned his eyes back to the immortal blade shining in his hand, still too fascinated to look away for long. "It is a wondrous gift –"

"It is a gift with a price," the Fisher King said, and at those words Arthur turned to look at him, letting the sword drop to his side. "You have taken this sword from the stone – now you must also take the curse from my land."

_What_? The legend had it that the king's festering wound had cursed the land, but Arthur saw no such hurt. Perhaps he had been waiting for someone to draw the sword, to – _use on him_? Arthur wasn't sure he could run the old man through, no matter how he might beg for death… "How can we possibly –" he began.

"Not you," the old king interrupted softly. "Your dragonlord."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur turned to look over the stone at Merlin, and he couldn't read his king's expression. Gwaine's eyes were on him, too.

"Yesterday morning," Merlin said, keeping his voice steady with an effort, "while you were involved in the duel with Gilli, I spoke with Julius. He claimed to have visited the tomb of Ashkenar in search of a particular treasure, which he did not find."

"Ashkenar?" Gwaine said from his place at the Fisher King's side. He glanced at the old man. "Your sorcerer?"

"_My_…sorcerer," the king breathed.

"What treasure?" Arthur said. Merlin couldn't tell if his friend was upset with him.

"He did not find this treasure because it had been brought here," Merlin said, "and a curse followed."

"This is what you must remove," the Fisher King said, his words at once a command and a plea. "One precious object may each of you claim, and carry from these lands. The trident, an acknowledgement of victory over an ancient perversion of nature, the symbol of unification, the standard carried by King Arthur's knight-attendant. The sword in the stone, drawn forth by the sovereign promised in prophecy, the once and future king. And…"

"What treasure?" Arthur said again, his tone gentler but his eyes keen. "Merlin?"

"A dragon's egg," Merlin said, and his voice shook. He hadn't intended to interrupt their quest, but it seemed the old king was determined – and he could hardly contain his eager hope. "A dragon's egg."

They stood a moment in silence, then Arthur said, "Julius told you this yesterday morning." Merlin could only nod. "Why didn't you say anything?" The question was almost painfully earnest.

"Our quest was for the trident," Merlin answered in a low voice. He knew Arthur would have given in, if he'd asked, but if something had happened to them because of his delay, he would never have been able to forgive himself.

Arthur pressed his lips together and rounded the stone swiftly to put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Once we claimed the trident, we could have taken the opportunity to search for the egg also," he said. "Whether we reach the pavilion in two days or three, is not important. What is a concern to you is a concern to me. Lord Merlin." His words were spoken seriously, but there was humor in his tone as he added the title.

The young king turned back to the elder. "We will take the egg with us, and by doing so lift the curse on your lands?" he said, confirming his understanding of the situation.

"There is a door at the far end of this chamber, dragonlord," the Fisher King said. "Beyond, you shall find the youngest of your kin." Beside him, Gwaine grinned at Merlin, nodded once to convey support, encouragement, affirmation.

"Would you like me to come?" The blue of Arthur's eyes had never been so clear, so piercing.

"No, sire," Merlin said. "I – I think I should be – this is something I must do – alone."

Arthur nodded. "We'll wait for you here," he promised.

The excitement and anticipation built with each step Merlin took, away from the stone and the other three, and by the time he reached the end of the chamber he had to restrain himself from breaking into a run. He found a small arched doorway, a half-dozen steps that curved in the shape of an _S_, so the two large chambers were adjoined, without looking directly into each other or being separated by a door.

He was struck by the similarity of this chamber to the other. A single shaft of sunlight shone down upon a pedestal in the center of the room, about four feet high. Atop the pedestal… he approached slowly, in a state of awed joy.

The egg was extraordinary. An opalescent white-blue, shaped like a rounded teardrop rather than an oval or sphere, the milky opacity smooth and strong and delicate all at once. Merlin reached the pedestal, but instead of stepping up to it, he began to circle it, though logically the egg would look the same from all directions.

"Give it to me," a voice said, so rough with desperation that Merlin didn't recognize it, until Julius moved into view from the far end of the room, carrying a lighted torch.

"It is not yours to take," Merlin told him. He squinted as the other man approached, crossbow in his other hand, readied but swinging at his side.

"You give it to me, and I will grant you a half-share, Merlin," Julius growled.

Merlin laughed at him. His heritage gave him a incontestable full-share, the privilege and the responsibility of the hatchling. "You can't split a dragon," he said, the mild delirium of the tiny delicate creature waiting just in front of him making him somewhat less cautious than otherwise he might have been. Just now he felt damn near invincible. "It must go free."

"Don't be a fool." Julius' eyes gleamed madly. He gestured with the crossbow, though not pointing it at Merlin. "Think of the power it will bring us, the lands we can rule over, the riches."

"I'm not interested in that," Merlin said.

"With this dragon at our command we will live like kings. We will have the freedom and power to do as we wish!" Julius circled, unknowingly blocking Merlin from the door and stairway that led back to his friends. If he waited too long here, would they come looking, or let him take as much time as he might need?

"Dragons cannot be used like that," Merlin tried to explain. "They must be left unshackled, free to roam the earth."

"This is your last chance, Merlin," Julius warned, suddenly turning and stalking toward Merlin and the pedestal. Merlin slipped around to place his body between the egg and the other man.

"Dragons are magical creatures," Merlin said. He shouldn't have to tell Julius this, if the man had truly studied dragonlore. "Though they may answer to a dragonlord, they belong to no one person – they are for the benefit of all men."

Julius swung the torch, and Merlin ducked the fiery sweep. "I invaded the tomb of Ashkenar and emerged alive! I found its resting place! That dragon belongs to me!" He raised the crossbow to point at Merlin's chest from two feet away. "Now, hand it over!"

"No," Merlin said. "Please don't make me kill you. Sir Gwaine has already claimed the trident for Arthur; they're waiting for me. You can surrender, leave these lands…"

"You are not going to stop me, boy!" Julius shrieked, and Merlin recognized his madness. He wondered if Julius truly realized who he was speaking to, anymore. Julius lowered the crossbow abruptly, to point into Merlin's gut. "You need only live long enough to call the dragon from its shell."

"I am warning you," Merlin said, preparing to employ defensive magic. "Leave this dragon egg alone."

Julius sneered. His thumb moved on the trigger, and Merlin's magic flung his enemy twenty feet backwards, as the bolt hissed wildly past his ear. Merlin watched for a moment, but the other man did not stir.

He turned back to the pedestal, and cupped his hands around the widest part of the egg, the bulge of the teardrop. It felt _warm_ in his hands, alive – the moment untarnished by the argument and the brief battle, the bit of violence to protect the young somehow coloring that instant more glorious.

He wondered how heavy it might be, and lifted. The egg fairly leaped upward into his palms, like a very small child jumping into the sure embrace of her father.

"Ah!" he breathed involuntarily, wondering if Arthur had felt something similar as the sword slid into his possession.

A section of stone at the top of the pedestal, freed from the weight of the egg, rose an inch or so, and clicked into place, and Merlin froze in wary apprehension.

For a moment the silence reigned. Then a trickle of dust sifted through the shaft of sunlight, and the floor trembled underfoot. Somewhere in the dark distance, a stone clattered sharply as it fell, a shard cracked from a block or the block itself.

The egg, Merlin felt, was eager to leave.

"You and me both," he said, tucking it under one arm in a secure grip. "Let's go." He sprinted for the door and the stair to the sword chamber, sparing a glance for the form of the man on the floor. A heavier section of stone fell – clatterclatter_thud_. His responsibility was to his king. To Arthur, and Gwaine, and the new life blossoming slowly to awareness in the crook of his arm.

He leaped down the stair and found Arthur and Gwaine halfway to him across the primary chamber, the immortal sword still bared in the king's hand. Behind them, the Fisher King sat on the empty boulder, hands on his knees. To the sides, the stone of the wall cracked, shifted. Clouds of dust and disturbed cobwebs billowed up, obscuring the air even as more light penetrated through the breaking wall.

Gwaine exclaimed, "What happened?"

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Merlin coughed.

"You've got it?" Arthur confirmed, slowing as Merlin reached them, then turning to hurry back the way they'd come.

"Let's get out of this place," Gwaine suggested.

The Fisher King made no move to rise as they returned. "I thought taking this was meant to bring prosperity back," Merlin said to him. "To restore."

The old king smiled gently. "The land will heal slowly," he said. "This, and I, are the last remnants of the old to be purged."

"Your citadel is falling," Arthur said, extending his arm for the older monarch's assistance.

"That is so," the Fisher King said. "You must hurry to safety, young king, with your strength and your magic and your rewards."

"But if you stay here, you'll die," Merlin protested. A block toppled from the wall and the daylight brought a yellow glow to the dust-gray of the king's garments and face. Gwaine moved to the hidden wall-door leading back to the king's throne room.

The Fisher King smiled gently, unperturbed. "I wanted an end to my suffering," he said.

Desperation entered Merlin's heart. "Don't you even want to see her?" he asked, shuffling the egg around to the front of his body. The floor trembled. "This beauty you have lived long to protect?"

"It is enough to see this in your hands. Go now, Emrys."

Arthur grabbed Merlin's sleeve to urge him along. More stones fell, and heavier. Merlin paused to glance back. The Fisher King was nearly indistinguishable from the swirling ribbons of dust. "Thank you," Merlin heard.

Then the three of them were pounding across the dusty paneled floor, buckling and bending under their feet. Merlin took a second to be glad the wood wasn't polished as smooth as the flooring in Camelot, and then several planks splintered.

The spiral stairway was dangerous at the pace they were going, and all three of them had one hand occupied with the protection of a treasure. Merlin's boots skidded out from under him off a narrow step, and he knocked Gwaine off his feet as he slid the rest of the way down.

His friend cursed repetitively until they came to a rest, Gwaine on top, Merlin almost cross-eyed focusing on the three prongs of the trident in front of his face, his arms a flesh-and-bone cage shielding the egg. His right elbow was scraped raw from the curved wall of the stairway – the sleeves of jacket and shirt in shreds, blood trickling warmly toward his wrist.

Arthur stood over them, haloed in the sudden brilliance of daylight, sword gleaming in his hand. "This way," he said only, and Gwaine and Merlin disentangled themselves to dash after him, down a corridor open to the outside air. The support for an archway cracked and crumbled as they passed.

"This isn't the way we came!" Gwaine shouted from behind them.

"No time!" Arthur called back over his shoulder. As they came to the end of the gallery, it began to collapse behind them. "Out and down!" the king ordered, and Gwaine spat out an obscenity. Merlin merely swung his legs over the low wall and dropped down beside Arthur on a section of slate roof.

One arm curled around the egg, he lost his balance and began to slide, the edge of the sloped roof coming closer every second. He rolled to keep the egg uppermost, padded from the roof by his body, and readied to catch himself. As his body shot out into empty space, he cried out with the pain in his right hand, which felt as if it had been ripped apart at the thumb joint, but hung on grimly.

Arthur's head appeared over the edge of the roof – then Gwaine's, sweat streaking the dust on their skin and hair. Arthur glanced down over Merlin's shoulder. "Merlin, do you trust me?" he said quietly.

Every one of Merlin's breaths was a panting whimper, but he managed a nod as his body twisted midair.

"Then let go," Arthur said.

Merlin obeyed. He fell for a heartbeat, then landed hard on the tilted stone beneath. Gwaine and Arthur rolled to the edge of the roof in preparation to drop down beside him, the tower silhouetted against the blue of the sky behind them, crumbling slowly but inexorably, as the wyverns eddied around it, too agitated to take notice of them. The king and the knight landed awkwardly, careful of the respective weapons in their hands. Merlin turned to find that they'd landed on the narrow walkway atop the outer wall.

Before them, the level dirt of the plateau, sinking gradually toward the south. Behind them, the uninterrupted and increasing rumble of destruction.

"Jump?" Arthur said grimly, leaning over the parapet, turning back to raise his eyebrows at Merlin. "Jump?"

It was thirty feet if it was an inch. The stone of the wall shuddered beneath their boots. He knew what the king was asking.

"Jump," he agreed breathlessly, and as he positioned himself on the parapet, he felt a glow of exhilaration push against his consciousness, as though he himself bore a pair of wings on his back – if he filled his lungs with enough air, would it come out again in a rush of flames? _Fly_! _No, not I_, he silently answered.

"Ready, Merlin?" Gwaine grinned. The trident in his hand clanged against the stone. Wyverns shrieked from the sky behind them.

Feet braced against the outside of the wall, egg cradled in his arm – he had a sudden vivid image of his own body, broken and bleeding, the shell not so much as scratched – and all three leaped outward. The air tugged at clothing and hair – the ground surged up – and Merlin froze them all in midair, long enough for them to land on hands and knees, to tumble and come upright as though the wall were no more than a man's height.

They ran, feeling the thud of dropping masonry behind them, their feet pounding in the dirt. Merlin's chest ached, a stitch opening in his right side like a fiery wound, but he didn't stop until Arthur slowed, then turned to look back at the tower. Merlin fell to one knee, nestled the egg gently into the tiny spears of brittle yellow growth on the ground, then stretched his full length on the ground. Over the thundering of his breathing and his racing pulse, he heard the final grumble-roar of the collapsing tower.

"Well," Gwaine said, gasping, gripping the shaft of the trident in both hands as he bent over his knees to regain his breath. "We did it."

"Thus ends a noble man," Arthur murmured, tucking the sword against his chest in a curiously graceful way, his eyes still on the tower.

"And one not-so-noble one," Merlin added. Dust puffed away from his face as he breathed, and he shifted to be able to see Arthur beyond the blue-white curve of the egg. "Julius was in that chamber – he wanted this for himself."

Gwaine snorted. "Well, no one could have survived that," he said, pointing as the enormous chunks of rubble continued to settle. He took two steps, and crouched next to Merlin, studying the uniquely-shaped egg. "Congratulations, Merlin," he said, as Merlin pushed himself up to a sitting position. "You're a father."

He couldn't help the wide grin that split the dust and grime caked on his face, and he didn't try. "Just wait til you see her when she hatches," he promised his friend.

"_Her_?" Gwaine teased, throwing a glance to Arthur.

Merlin pulled his saddlebags from his shoulder, emptying out the packet of dried fruit, the crumbled biscuits, handing them to Gwaine to carry. He shook the crumbs from the pocket, then studied the leather pieces, measuring mentally, before he spoke a long phrase in the Old Language, commanding the leather, the lining and the stitching to change, to reform, to reinforce. And when he was done, he slid the egg into a perfectly-shaped pouch, with a long strap that he could throw over his head and one arm.

"Nice work," Arthur complimented him, nodding and giving him a not-so-reluctant half-smile.

Gwaine added, "Now we just have to get back to the pavilion."

"Arthur," Merlin said, and took a deep breath. He knew Arthur was not going to be happy to hear what he had to say. "I think – I think we should split up."

**A/N: Dialogue from ep. 1.9 "Excalibur", 3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix", 4.4 "Aithusa", and 4.13 "The Sword in the Stone".**


	29. Arthur's Coming

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 9: Arthur's Coming**

"Arthur. It's getting light."

He groaned and rolled over, tangling his blanket about his legs. Being a prophesied king with a legendary sword didn't mean he was somehow mysteriously exempt from the misery of sore muscles and bruised bones that came from days of running and fighting and falling and… sleeping on the ground. At least the wyverns hadn't followed them.

Without moving to get up, he opened his eyes and watched through the misty grayness of predawn light as Gwaine, who'd taken the third watch, approached the long low shadow that was Merlin's slumbering body. _Split up_, Arthur scoffed to himself again. _Did you hit your head?_ he'd immediately asked the sorcerer.

Gwaine hissed to wake Merlin as he'd woken Arthur, but there was no response. Gwaine moved his boot to kick gently at Merlin's feet – and lost his balance as it met no resistance.

Gwaine stumbled right into the middle of the shadow that should have been their friend's sleeping form, and turned a horrified look on Arthur, who scrambled to his feet. The shadow dissipated, drifting with the mist.

"_Merlin_!" Arthur bellowed, turning as though he might see his friend come stumbling to the campsite with an armload of firewood or a sheepish grin and an excuse of having to relieve himself. No reply. No movement. "Merlin!" Arthur shouted again.

"His things are gone," Gwaine observed, casting a glance around. "The egg is gone. I think he took your old sword, at least."

"Dammit, Merlin!" Arthur roared into the stillness.

Behind him, Gwaine said, "Arthur, he's gone. Probably long gone."

Arthur rounded on him. "He was here to take second watch from me and to turn third watch over to you – why didn't you do a better job of it?"

Gwaine's eyebrows rose. "You're blaming _me_ because a sorcerer was able to sneak _out_ of our camp?" he said. Then he bent to begin rolling his blanket. "You said yourself, he only listens to your orders when it suits him."

"I told him we were going to stay together," Arthur said wrathfully. "The southern bridge, and two days to the pavilion, even if that last warrior causes a delay. I told him we'll outrun Morgana…"

"Yes, because it worked so well for us last time," Gwaine remarked ironically, indicating where Merlin had healed Arthur's shoulder of the arrow-wound.

"I didn't _want_ him to go back to Grettir's bridge and Morgana's ambush," Arthur said, crouching down as Gwaine moved to fold and roll Arthur's blanket tightly. "I didn't _want_ him to keep her distracted or occupied until we made it to the pavilion."

"He knew that," Gwaine said, and the reasonable tone from the normally more volatile knight made Arthur's temper rise. "You made that clear last night."

"Obviously not clear enough," Arthur growled, "and why the hell are you so calm? You're suddenly in a hurry to be on our way?"

"You know we can't go after him," Gwaine said. "The sooner we get to the pavilion, so everyone knows we have the trident and that you're to be high king, the sooner that I, at least, can go after Merlin. Unless he makes it there before us."

Arthur snatched the bedroll from the knight, but rejected the biscuit he offered in place of a more substantial breakfast. "You really believe that will happen?" he demanded.

"He can defeat her," Gwaine said confidently, pouring handful of dust over the smoldering coals of the campfire.

"He can," Arthur mumbled rebelliously. "But will he?"

Gwaine straightened, adjusting his blanket roll and saddlebags before stooping to reclaim the trident he'd carried. "What do you mean?" he said. "Just because he released Alice and Elena? Merlin knows Morgana is an enemy."

Arthur pulled his sword from the earth. A chosen fall… his sacrifice to make. _Sometimes the duty of a king requires that he allow another to make that sacrifice_… he looked to the west, seeing further the lighter the sky became, but more of the same dead spindles of tree trunks, tussocks of dry grass of the Perilous Lands. No long-legged sorcerer making his way across the countryside. Long gone. He turned to the south – they should make the bridge before midday.

"When Merlin and I entered the amphitheatre," he said, setting a pace that made speaking without panting almost impossible, "there were three combatants who were witches. Merlin killed all three." Gwaine glanced quickly at him, incredulous. "One with a throwing star, as she was trying to knife me. One was near-accidental, I take it, though I was enchanted at the time –" He waved away Gwaine's attempt to question him. "Just shut up and listen. The sorceress' life force was connected to an external source, a crystal, which was hit by an arrow while in Merlin's control. The third…" Arthur hesitated as they marched on, remembering the horror of fighting the undying afanc, the drenched arena, the fireball exploding against Merlin's chest.

"The third?" Gwaine prompted.

"The third he called lightning down on, after she tried to lay a death-curse on me," Arthur said.

"What are you saying?" Gwaine asked. "Seems to me he has no problem fighting other magic-users, then."

"Not just magic-users," Arthur said. "_Women_. One was an accident – a lucky accident – and the other two were essentially reactions in _my_ defense. In the labyrinth, there were two sorceresses –"

"Both of whom he fought," Gwaine argued, stepping over a fallen log.

"But who killed them?" Arthur pointed out. "I put a sword into Catrina, and you knifed Morgause." Gwaine reflected, and remained silent. "And here – he lost consciousness doing magic to save Elena and Alice, and –"

"Lamia?" Gwaine said.

"I speared the monster from behind," Arthur said, "he knocked the body over."

"You think he'll find it hard to face Morgana because she's a woman?" Gwaine said.

"We said that about Morgause last year," Arthur reminded him. "I think Merlin has no problem defending me – or you – with deadly force, but when it comes to himself… I'm not so sure."

"He won't let her kill him," Gwaine said. "He won't even let her escape to threaten us."

Arthur didn't answer, just strode faster, searching through the sun's first rays on their left to see if he could make out the area of the land where the gorge lay, in the distance.

"Arthur," Gwaine said. "My riddle said, _Once given, it must be kept. Once broken, forever wept_." Arthur glanced over at his knight, there was no mirth visible in him. "The answer is oath. I promised myself to look after Merlin, to defend him, but I also vowed my loyalty and service to _you_, that I would follow _you_. Sometimes it just isn't possible, to fulfill an oath the way you think it should be done. I think – I think he left because he was worried about us – you heard how he argued to face her himself. I think he wanted to make absolutely certain she was nowhere near us."

Arthur growled, "Idiot."

It was the last thing either of them said until they reached the gorge several hours later. It was nothing more than a break in the land, an off-color ripple cutting through hills from the west toward the southeast, and then the bridge came into sight.

Unlike the bridge Grettir guarded, this had very little cover. The lifelessness of the Perilous Lands extended right to the gorge, and the cover of the forest did not begin for several yards on the opposite side.

"What do you think?" Gwaine said, breaking the silence after they'd studied the layout for a few moments. "There's got to be some catch, some hidden trap, right?"

"I have a feeling," Arthur said slowly, tightening his fingers around the hilt of his extraordinary sword, sheathed at his hip, "that we will have no problem crossing from this side to that, not with these in hand." He took his hand from the sword to flick the shaft of the trident in Gwaine's grasp, its butt-end resting in the dust at their feet.

"And Helios?" Gwaine said.

"I think," Arthur said slowly, "as long as you have that, we have the advantage. Keep a little distance from me, and be on your guard."

It didn't do to be careless, of course, but with this sword in his hand and the prophecies in mind – unite Albion, rule over a golden age of peace – he felt fairly invincible. Still, he kept his eyes searching into the trees for any threat as he strode to the stakes, driven deep in the earth to support the ropes suspending the planks of the bridge.

He was halfway across, at the lowest point of the sagging bridge, testing each step carefully, just in case, when a man appeared. He was dark-skinned, the only hair on his head being a short beard, tattoos down the muscles of his upper arms. He wore a leather torque embossed with gold symbols that Arthur could not make out at that distance, a wide belt, and his trousers tucked into knee-high boots. His sword was ready in his hand, and he moved unhesitatingly to the ropes binding the other end of the bridge to the anchoring poles, laying the blade threateningly on the taut line.

"I want the trident," Helios said. "Give it to me, and I'll leave you both alive – on that side, with the bridge cut."

Arthur smirked. "So we can go back to the other bridge – right into Morgana's hands?" he said.

Helios hesitated, just long enough to confirm Arthur's guess. "You!" he called across to Gwaine. "I want the trident, or I'll split these ropes and your king will fall to his death."

Arthur looked over the side. He could see about ten yards down, and then there was only mist, rising from the bowels of the earth.

"Split the ropes," Gwaine invited, "and I'll drop this." Arthur glanced back to see the knight extending the contested prize over the edge of the gorge.

"I was promised a year's pay if I return with that," Helios mused, and sawed his blade twice over the rope, causing it to split and twist, the broken pieces unraveling. The quivering of the action of his blade vibrated through Arthur's hands and feet. "But I think your king is more valuable to you than that, am I right?"

Arthur bent his knees, winding his forearms in the hand-ropes. "Go ahead and cut," he said. "The bridge is still attached at this end. I'll climb back up… and you won't get the trident."

"But my lady Morgana will get the two of you," Helios said. "When you travel to the other bridge."

Arthur gave the warrior his widest smile. "I wouldn't bet on that," he said. "My sorcerer has gone after _her_."

Helios considered him, looked down at the blade of his sword resting atop the fraying strands of bridge-rope. "A straight-up fight, then?" he suggested. "You and me, to the death, for the trident."

It was, Arthur supposed, the lesser of two evils, the shorter of two delays. As much as he wanted to go to Merlin, there was a day's distance between them now. If his sorcerer could hold the witch for a day, or defeat her in a day, it would do them no good to waste the time to go around.

"Done," he said.

Helios moved back, pointing his sword at Gwaine as he retreated. "He stays on that side until one of us is dead," he demanded.

Arthur didn't even bother glancing back. "Gwaine," he said, raising his voice slightly.

"Yes, sire," the knight called back, sounding disappointed.

He drew his new sword as he crossed the last few feet of bridge. Well. His first battle with the legendary blade. _Let's see how good you really are_, he thought, and attacked.

Helios parried, then counterattacked twice, from the left and a descending blow from overhead. Arthur blocked both, then spun in a tight circle to slash hard across his enemy's middle. Helios leaped back, then beckoned mockingly to Arthur.

So. Skill he could match. That left strength to be discovered… Arthur slung his blade hard cross-handed, and Helios blocked him again. Arthur followed up with a series of attacks at his torso – right, left, right – driving him back, getting the other into a rhythm of blocking a flurry of blows with a minimum of movement required, just a shift of his own blade to the right or left, then switching to a descending blow from overhead.

Arthur had then to twist sideways to block an unexpected attack, the point of the warrior's blade inches from Arthur's chin. He tried a double-handed downward strike, then blocked a blow from his enemy's right, his hilt by his face and his blade downward next to his body, so the other blade would slide off the end rather than catching on the cross-guard.

Instead of losing his balance as his blade met no resistance, Helios danced past Arthur, who rotated on his ankle to face him. He took a deep breath, spinning the immortal blade at his side. It might have been his imagination that he felt stronger, quicker, more daring more perceptive, with this weapon in his hand, but the fact remained that he was worn out, while Helios had spent the last few days resting and waiting. His opponent had skill and strength – but did he have strategy?

The other warrior attacked again, and Arthur blocked twice, from the right, and an overhead blow. Then Helios feinted – and punched Arthur right in the face with the hilt of his sword. Arthur allowed the force of the blow to whirl him around as he dropped to his knees. Grinning in anticipation of his triumph, Helios swung his sword in a wide arc, gathering momentum for a beheading blow. Arthur blocked it, but collapsed sideways to one elbow. He heard Gwaine shouting his name.

Helios stood over him, arranging both hands on the hilt of his weapon in a stabbing grip. He raised the sword, gloating. And Arthur lunged upward, knocking Helios' sword aside as he plunged the immortal blade into his enemy, just below his breastbone – he didn't stop until the hilt was brushing the leather torque.

The gold embossing, he noticed, was a pattern of skulls.

He twisted the blade, and the dark-skinned body jerked reflexively, then toppled slowly down. Arthur kept his hold on his hilt, and allowed the blade to slide free as Helios fell at his feet.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It wasn't the same without Merlin.

They'd found Helios' horse, and had worked their way south through the forest of Engerd, the rest of that day and most of the next. Without Merlin, it was grim and hasty. Words were short and to the point, there was no chatting, no banter, just two warriors with a goal. Arthur was just as worried as Gwaine, he knew, but the king would do his duty and return to the pavilion, in spite of Merlin's absence. The sorcerer risked himself for Arthur's sake, and they had to respect the sacrifice he was making.

Gwaine only hoped he could get Arthur delivered safely to the pavilion and get back to Merlin in time to prevent him from making the ultimate sacrifice. Falling on your sword was a noble concept – but utter rubbish as far as Gwaine was concerned. He'd go down fighting, any day.

"I'm sure he's fine," Gwaine remarked the second morning, scattering earth over their campfire in preparation to depart, as Arthur saddled Helios' dark brown gelding.

"He is," Arthur said, briefly but confidently.

They rode, they walked. Gwaine carried the trident, Arthur kept his hand on the hilt of the legendary sword in an unconsciously habitual way.

They finally emerged from the forest on a ridge overlooking the plain where the pavilion was erected, and campsites of the four monarchs of the five kingdoms to the points of the compass.  
"Ah, Arthur…" Gwaine said uneasily, looking over the king's shoulder atop their shared mount.

"Word has spread," Arthur remarked.

Each campsite had increased in size almost twofold, Gwaine would guess. At least there would be no denying Arthur's victory. And hopefully no delaying of the proclamation of him as high king of Albion. Gwaine wondered how soon he might be able to slip away.

Arthur urged more speed from the horse, angling to approach from the northeastern corner, between Annis and Alined's encampments. By the time they reached the outer tents, scouts had reported, and spectators had flocked, and the way toward the central pavilion was lined with gawking onlookers.

Arthur rode with his back straight and his eyes forward. Gwaine carried the trident upright to the side, resting the butt on the toe of his boot and letting the three-pronged head fall outward to the length of his arm, as a standard-bearer would do. Awed eyes were on the ancient tarnished weapon, and Gwaine had to restrain himself from pointing out the far more important, and yet completely innocuous weapon riding at Arthur's hip.

The two kings and the queen were waiting outside the pavilion when Arthur reined in. Odin looked like thunder, Alined like he'd just tasted something sour. Annis' lips were pursed with grudging respect. Percival stood with them as Arthur's representative, along with a couple council members, and Geoffrey, Elyan beaming beside him – and Guinevere at his elbow, with one hand over her heart in happy relief.

Then there was Gaius, eyebrow raised in stubborn refusal to be impressed until success was proven, and Freya half behind him, and their eyes were searching for someone else.

"He's alive," Arthur spoke to them first.

Gwaine opened his mouth to qualify the king's words, _he was when we saw him last_, then shut it again. It would do no good.

Arthur shifted, and Gwaine caught his wordless command, setting the shaft of the trident down on the grass for support as he slid from the horse's back, Arthur moments behind him, more suitably using the stirrup to dismount.

"I call upon all here present today," Arthur said, his eyes on his fellow rulers but his voice raised to carry clearly in the hush, "to bear witness. Camelot has been to the Perilous Lands, and returned with the trident of the Fisher King, according to the terms of the covenant agreed upon and signed by the Five Kingdoms."

Silence. And yet more silence, the crowd taking its cue from the other three.

"It would seem the victory is yours," Odin growled.

"It is not victory I seek," Arthur returned. "It is peace. I hope that today will mark a new beginning for our kingdoms. If the appropriate documentation has been drawn up –" Geoffrey stepped forward and bowed an affirmation. "I see no better time than the present to sign the accord for the unification of the five kingdoms."

Odin whirled, slapping the tent flap aside, and Alined slunk after him, followed by his court sorcerer. Annis gave Arthur a reluctant smile of approval. "There is something about you, Arthur Pendragon," she said, "something which gives me hope for us all."

Gwaine refrained from saying, _you know what that something is – we're idiots, the lot of us_. He didn't figure Arthur would appreciate that – and it reminded him too much of Merlin, just now.

In a flurry of purple, Guinevere left her place to fling her arms around Arthur, filthy and sweaty and tired as he was, and the king bent to hold her tight and press his face into her shoulder and neck. His shoulders rose and fell with one deep breath, then he pulled back, set a kiss deliberately on her lips, and passed into the tent.

Gwaine tossed a reassuring grin to his friends, and followed Arthur.

Once inside the pavilion and away from the eyes of the observers, Odin snapped, "I, for one, require a full reckoning of events before I believe that Camelot's young king has followed the accord we specified. What, in the event of theft or other law-breaking in the last five days?"

"We can sign contingent upon no such breach of contract coming to light," Annis said.

Arthur strode right to the table where the scroll waited for the signatures, reading through it though Gwaine knew the king trusted Geoffrey's examination of the document. Alined moved to Gwaine to touch the trident, turn it, as though verifying its authenticity. Gwaine gave him his most devilish grin.

"We could wait until the participants of all teams are accounted for," Alined said, turning away again. "Conduct interviews, piece together the truth of the quest, before we acknowledge young Arthur king of all Albion."

Arthur didn't react, but reached for the quill propped in the inkwell, and signed the sheet. "Geoffrey," he said, turning. "There will be copies for the archives of each ruler." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sire," Geoffrey bowed.

"Those can be signed at a later time," Arthur decided. He turned to face the three other rulers, and Gwaine was struck by the sight of his friend – his _king_.

Arthur was pale, and stern. Unwashed, unshaved, travel-stained, his blue eyes piercing and commanding. He _was_ the high king. He took the immortal blade from his sheath, not drawing it across his body, right hand from left hip as he would if expecting to fight, but simply easing it free with his left hand.

"Gaius," he said, and Gwaine noticed that the old physician had joined them in the pavilion. "Can you identify this blade."

The old man took the weapon gingerly, Geoffrey stepping close to study it with interest as well. "Amazing craftsmanship," Gaius said. "Unparalleled design. The runes read, on this side, _Take me up_, and … Sire, where did you get this?"

Geoffrey said, "This weapon fits the description of the immortal blade of Bruta, the sword thrust magically into stone, not to be released until–"

"Until the unification of Albion," Annis said. "By the once and future king."

"It was in the tower of the Fisher King," Arthur stated emotionlessly. "Sir Gwaine and Lord Merlin both witnessed the drawing of it from the stone by my hand. I am willing to allow whatever experts you wish access to it for authentication."

Annis shook her head, but not in disbelief, and turned to the other two kings. "This contest was none of Arthur's making," she said, "but he is the clear victor – and moreover, seems to have fulfilled prophecy at our instigation. You can refuse no longer." She stepped to Arthur's side, sweeping her skirts in a half-curtsy. "My lord." He moved to allow her access to the table, and she leaned over to sign the document.

"Annis," Arthur said, as she straightened. "Have you means of contact with your sorceress?" Gwaine shuffled around the edge of the central rug, in order to get closer to the queen and his king.

"With Morgana?" Annis looked surprised. "Yes, I have a raven I can send with a message. May I ask why?"

"Were you aware," Arthur said deliberately, "that she held a grudge against myself, Sir Gwaine, and Lord Merlin personally, due to the death of her cousin Morgause last year in the Labyrinth of Gedref?"

Annis stared at him. "She has been very bitter this past year," the queen admitted. "Dissatisfied. She explained – a death in her family…"

"Gwaine and I traveled from the Perilous Lands by the southern bridge," Arthur said, "where your champion Helios waited in ambush."

"You killed him?" Annis guessed.

"Even so. Lord Merlin, however, chose to return by way of the eastern bridge, where we expected Morgana to be waiting. I am concerned that she be notified of the conclusion of the contest as soon as possible."

Annis stared a moment longer. "Your sorcerer would have crossed into the corner of Mercia known as Goblin's Hollow sometime yesterday," she said, and Arthur nodded confirmation. "If the two magic-users met in conflict at that time," she hesitated, curious, "of what use is it to send a message declaring cessation of hostilities this evening? Surely a wizard's duel would not last through the night and a second day as well?"

Arthur glanced at the other men in the tent – Odin, Alined and his simpering court sorcerer, Gaius and Geoffrey, and said softly, "My heart tells me they battle on."

Annis' mask of haughty coolness disappeared. "I recall," she said slowly, "dreams. Morgana mentioned – her destiny and her doom, she said. _Emrys_. Arthur, if you are the once and future king of prophecy, then your Emrys is –"

"Merlin, yes," Arthur said grimly.

"Morgana was in favor of the idea of unification. She said – a high king – his sorcerer…" Annis bit her lip. "Arthur, I fear she will not cease until he is dead, or she is, despite the conclusion of the quest. I fear she has been studying and searching to learn the identity of Emrys – that she might destroy him before he can destroy her."

"Then she forces her own fate," Arthur said stonily. "Merlin is incapable of holding a grudge – he would not have been her enemy had she not made herself his."

"I will send the message regardless," Annis promised, dipping a slight curtsy. It was odd and a little awing to Gwaine to see such a hard, calculating woman – a queen before Arthur had learned to walk, perhaps – giving him the courtesy of a liege. And Arthur accepting it without another thought.

"Arthur," she added, turning back. "Morgana is a high priestess. I understand little of the Old Religion, the rules, the customs, but I am afraid even someone with the power of Emrys will find it difficult to accomplish her death."

Arthur gave Gwaine a look. Gaius bowed his head respectfully as the queen swept past him to exit the tent. "Now, sire – and you, too, Gwaine –" the old man said. "Have you any injuries for me to tend to? No? good. Where is Merlin?"

"Merlin was holding Morgana off our backs," Gwaine explained. Gaius' eyebrows rose, and Gwaine held his palms out defensively. "It was his idea – _and_ he slipped off after Arthur told him not to." The old man humphed at his assistant's foolhardiness. "Only – now Annis thinks Merlin might have a rougher time of it than even we thought. Seems Morgana is a high priestess –"

"I had no idea Annis' court sorceress had climbed so high," Gaius breathed. "She would be a formidable opponent, indeed. The high priestesses are not to be killed with mortal weapons."

"He took Arthur's other sword," Gwaine said, "that won't do him any good?"

"You're saying Merlin can't kill her?" Arthur demanded.

"Not _can't_, sire." Gaius hesitated. "Merlin has unsurpassed power, after all."

Arthur rounded on Gwaine. "Hand that thing off to Percival," he ordered, flicking the shaft of the trident. "Then have a horse saddled and provisioned and ready for me in half an hour."

"But, sire," Gaius protested.

"You and Geoffrey and Percival handle things here," Arthur decided. "Annis will help keep those other two in line, I believe. The other copies can be signed when I return."

"But it's almost dusk. Surely someone else can –"

"Someone else with an immortal blade?" Arthur said softly. "No. _This_ is mine, and _he_ is mine, and I _will not_ lose him to her. Gwaine."

"Sire." He bowed swiftly and exited the tent. The air was cooler now that the sun had slipped past the horizon, and he found it invigorating. In spite of the hardship of the quest they'd just returned from, Gwaine's steps were energetic as he followed Arthur's orders, with only a few quick phrases to those who wanted to stop and question him.

"Can't explain it all now," he told Percival, with Elyan beside him as Gwaine handed over the trident for safekeeping. "We're going after Merlin – sometime, we'll sit down to a tankard or five of ale and I'll tell you the whole thing, beginning to end, I swear. And it'll take all night, too."

To Guinevere's shocked realization of what his hurried preparations meant, he said only, again, "We're going after Merlin, my lady. And I swear to you, I will bring Arthur back." To Freya, Gwen's anxious shadow, he added more softly, "Emrys will be fine, you know." She nodded, and the two girls held both each other's hands together as Gwaine returned to the pavilion for Arthur.

Ye gods, he thought, how many different promises did he have going, now?

The king sent a swift glance over Gwaine's mount, studied his face briefly, then nodded his agreement. "Good," Gwaine told him aloud, cheerfully, "because if you had told me to stay behind, I'd have taken a page from Merlin's book and disobeyed you the moment your back was turned."

Arthur growled blackly at him, and spurred his horse out of the encampment. They galloped through the dusk until safety required them to stop.

"How did you figure we were going to find him?" Gwaine said, as they leaned against the boles of opposite trees to provide their bodies food, water, and rest.

Arthur said, pointing at an invisible map on the palm of his glove, "Here's the valley of the fallen kings, the cave, here's the village where we spent the night, and Goblin Hollow. This the more direct route we took returning. Now, Morgana will not want the goblin's interference, so I'm guessing they're in the forest, here."

"That's still about twelve leagues of forest," Gwaine said.

"It's a wizard's duel," Arthur said. "I'm afraid we're going to have no problem finding them. Come on, the moon's up – we can at least walk."

As it turned out, Arthur's instinctive sense of direction and unerring intuition for the location of his sorcerer got them fairly close by mid-afternoon of the next day. They could feel the quaking of the earth, hear the occasional snap of a tree branch or trunk, catch a flash of a passing fireball in the distance. They crept forward, tree by tree.

"What's the plan?" Gwaine whispered.

"We have to let him know we're here, without her realizing it as well," Arthur decided.

"And you have to get close enough to use that," Gwaine added, pointing at the gleaming blade in Arthur's hand. "Why don't I go around to the right and provide some distraction –" at Arthur's look he amended, "okay, some minimal safe distraction, and you can sneak up on the left."

Arthur shook his head, pressing his lips together. "I don't like it," he said. "Splitting up again – dammit. Okay – go. Go quickly."

Gwaine caught two glimpses of Merlin's back as he skirted the fray, once of the sorcerer crouching to dodge, once of him standing taller than Gwaine recalled him being, leaning forward with hands raised. Where was the egg in its magically-fashioned pouch? Where was Arthur's sword? It didn't matter, he realized, as it would be useless against Morgana anyway.

The two faced each other across a clearing, looking eerily alike – both pale as bone and grim as death, black hair matted and disheveled, glaring and spitting spells and curses, gesticulating, ducking, sometimes advancing a few steps and sometimes dropping back a few.

Gwaine maneuvered closer to Morgana, hoping that Merlin would notice him, but not lose his concentration. As he prowled toward her, the two magic-users seemed to draw together, step by step, til they faced each other from a ten-foot distance.

There was a dagger in Morgana's hand – Gwaine charged.

The witch's head snapped around to face him. Her green eyes glittered, her sneer widened – and Gwaine was catapulted backward, swift and high. He shouted, "_M_-" and slammed into a tree.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was exhausted.

He'd hoped to be allowed to make amends to Morgana for her cousin's death. He'd hoped to reassure her that he never had any intentions of being anyone's doom. He'd been told, before, that he was hopelessly optimistic, and he guessed it was true. Five times the first day, he'd fought her to a standstill, attempting to reason with her.

He'd underestimated the strength of the witch's anger and hatred.

The second day he didn't try to speak to her, just focused on defending himself and preventing her from getting any closer to Arthur – who traveled south at a decent pace, he gathered from the connection inside. For his pains, he'd been battered, singed, punctured, choked, and soaked. His lower left leg had been broken when she'd managed to knock him down into a ravine, and he'd been unlucky enough to land wrong, but he'd trapped her in an upsurge of rocky forest detritus long enough to knit the bone sufficiently to hold his weight.

By the end of the second day, Merlin recognized that she held the advantage, greatest-sorcerer-prophecy notwithstanding. She might have gone months without doing any significant magic, preparing for Annis to present the proposal to the kings. Aside from killing Alator and Jarl and causing the cave-in, she might not have done any other magic since the start of the quest, while he had drawn and drawn again from the deep golden well of his magic. They'd been fairly matched when he crossed Grettir's bridge to find no sign of hut, fire, or bridgekeeper.

However, defensive magic actually took more strength and energy, because the defense needed to be in place before it became necessary, during the attack, and afterwards to be sure the attack was over.

She would retreat, occasionally, temporarily, and Merlin let her go. But his magic was always wary, ready to alert him to her movements, her approach. Even as he slept, a poor and broken rest, a trickle of magic extended to keep watch and provide warning.

And that on top of the spell he maintained over the entire forest to counter any attempt at teleportation.

The dragon's egg he had hidden in a small cave. The goblins had taken cover the second day, drawing so far back into their hollow that he could no longer sense them.

As the third day dawned, Merlin was forced to acknowledge another sense he'd tried to convince himself he'd imagined during the night.

Arthur was coming.

_Kid gloves be damned_. He had to end it before his king arrived.

Only – the third day, the strength of the magic available for his sustainable use was less than the witch's. He'd hurled her against the trunks of trees, against the ground, had caused the earth to open beneath her – but she could still transport herself within his spell of containment, away from his threat. He'd considered poisoning the water source – but it was _his_ water source, as well as that for the wildlife and vegetation. He'd been close enough to wound her twice with Arthur's borrowed blade, once a slash across her side – she'd thrown him back and disappeared almost instantly – and once a solid hit, half the blade through center of mass, as Arthur and Leon had taught him.

She'd gasped and doubled over – then laughed as Merlin stepped back. "I am a high priestess!" she'd spat at him, "no mortal blade can kill me!"

That was when she'd broken his leg flinging him down the rocky ravine.

He limped into a clearing contemplating what calling up a thunderstorm would cost him in strength and endurance, the likelihood of setting the forest on fire trying to get the lightning to strike the witch instead of the trees, how long he'd have to let it rain so that wasn't a danger – and then the trouble of locating her in the dark to try to direct the strike…

Merlin realized two things with a shock. First, that Arthur had gotten within hailing distance. And second, that Morgana faced him across the clearing, dagger in hand.

He unleashed the magic that remained to him in a barrage of attacks – which she countered as she launched her own. He defended, and it was a stalemate of chaos.

Arthur was coming. Arthur, who he guessed had returned to the pavilion to gain the acclamation of high king – and was now here because of _him_. Instead of protecting his friend, his king, he'd been the cause of Arthur once again putting himself in danger.

Arthur hadn't come alone. In the trees to his right, Merlin glimpsed the lean swordsman's build, the longish dark hair of their companion-knight. Gwaine.

_Ye gods_, how useless his venture had been. Both his friends, here, now. And the witch. _Morgana holding Gwaine's face between her hands, his skin white and his eyes black with unspeakable agony. Arthur falling to his knees, pale and gaunt, the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood as the light left his eyes._ All that he'd meant to prevent, now in direst danger of all.

Morgana didn't know they were here – he had to keep it that way, had to hold her attention. _No mortal blade can kill me_ – he had to allow Arthur to get close enough to use the sword from the stone. Merlin put all his strength and energy into slowing time in the clearing, into a thickened air-shield between him and the witch.

And then he deliberately faltered.

She took a step closer, the knife extended. She took another step, pushing against Merlin's shield, breaking it for an instant before he reformed it, weaker and thinner. Her eyes burned with a fanatical loathing, her lips drew back from her teeth with a snarl. Another step.

To the right, Gwaine suddenly burst from cover, brandishing his sword to attack her. _Hells, Gwaine, no!_ She looked to the side and lifted her chin sharply, and his friend went flying. Merlin used no magic to cushion the impact or the fall.

_Here, witch. See how weak I am? No magic left to protect my friend._

The shield wavered, and she came closer.

Arthur was coming.

_All your attention, focused on me. See how close your vengeance is? See how close your freedom from the prophesied doom? See how helpless Emrys is?_

_Oh, hells, Arthur. Hurry._

Merlin put out his hand, bypassed the blade she held to curl his fingers around her wrist, hard as bone as all her strength leaned into the weapon.

Only one chance. They would not have another. He must keep her attention. The shield between them thinned. Her sleeve in his grasp slipped up to her elbow as she pushed forward. The edge of his jacket brushed the tip of the knife as it lightly touched his shirt. Morgana's eyes left Merlin's face for that one inch of filthy blue fabric, between the third and fourth ribs on his right side. To his vision, the blade took on a reflective glow of that blue. Magic.

_Here and now. Me and you. So close – can you taste it? Can you feel it? Victory in your grasp. _ Moments only had passed since Gwaine's charge.

_Arthur – oh, all ye gods and the monsters that roam the earth –_

The visions in crystal that hadn't left him since the Labyrinth of Gedref. _Arthur falling to his knees, pale and gaunt, the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood as the light left his eyes._ A newer vision - _himself lying on the floor of the cave, the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood. _

The sacrifice was his decision to make, his oath the vow to be kept.

A chosen fall.

Merlin released the shield entirely. Eight inches of blade entered his body, fiery cold. As two feet of immortal, legendary steel entered hers.

He stood still. Her hand left the hilt of the knife to grasp Arthur's on the hilt of the sword. The runes on the side Merlin could see read _Cast me_ – and the rest was inside the witch's body.

"Goodbye, Morgana," Arthur said coldly. Then he lowered her body to the ground, drawing his unique weapon free.

Her face, pale and frozen in a grimace of fear and pain, stilled, yet Merlin couldn't take his eyes away. What if she was pretending, too?

"It's finished," Arthur told him. He slammed the point of his sword into the earth and came to support Merlin carefully, gently – then roughly and awkwardly as Merlin's knees buckled and his legs refused to hold him.

"Arthur – you came," he said stupidly. "You weren't supposed to –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said, his voice at once tense and fond. "This isn't bad – I've seen worse –"

"On a dead man," Merlin joked, managing a smile.

"You can heal yourself, though, right?" Arthur said, as Merlin slipped lower in his arms. "Dammit – _Gwaine_!" he roared, raising himself higher on his knees to search the forest for the knight.

"Arthur," Merlin whispered. There was blood on the hand he raised, so he stopped short of touching Arthur's face as he'd intended. Arthur caught the hand in his anyway.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur growled. "I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth that's not a healing spell. _Gwaine_!"

"You know I never do as I'm told," Merlin said. "Arthur –"

"What, then, Merlin?" There was agony on Arthur's face, and Merlin was sorry to have caused it.

He smiled and whispered, "I'm glad you came."

**A/N: So this chapter really got away from me – ten pages and I wasn't half done with what I wanted to write. There will be two more chapters after this (though I hate to break my pattern of 10 chapters for each of the 3 parts), and that will be my penance for the cliff-hangers…**

**Thanks to guest reviewers who enjoy my work as well as my **_**regular**_** reviewers! So much encouragement is – encouraging!**

**Also, dialogue from ep. 4.5 "His Father's Son". And a couple of others I didn't bother to cite.**


	30. Last Light

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 10: Last Light**

To Arthur's eyes, Merlin had never looked worse. Or pretended to be so cheerful, which was almost harder to bear than if he'd grimaced and complained.

It had been a week since they'd left Camelot, and while none of them had enjoyed a proper bath or a full, uninterrupted meal, Merlin had been fighting a war for nearly three days straight, and he looked it.

Even during a tournament, the fighters were allowed a meal, a night's sleep. Even in war, reinforcements were brought forward to allow the front lines to retreat temporarily. Arthur imagined that Merlin had snatched an hour or so of rest when he could, a mouthful of food – but the supplies he'd left the Perilous Lands carrying were sufficient for a day and a half, maybe, not three. No food, no sleep, and almost constant magic. And then the deep knife wound.

Merlin was so pale the tracery of his veins was visible, a delicate pattern below the harsher marks of bruising, blood, and dirt.

Arthur found himself wishing that Merlin would let go of his stubborn grip on consciousness. That way he wouldn't feel Arthur sling him over his shoulder, find Gwaine and get to the horses, gallop nonstop back to the field and Camelot's camp, which was the better part of a day's ride closer than the city itself. And Gaius was there.

But Merlin remained exquisitely aware. He spoke the spell to close the knife wound high on his right side, then gritted his teeth, his breath hissing between his teeth as Arthur lifted him to his feet.

"Half a league to the horses," Arthur said, and Merlin smiled and nodded, encouraging _him_.

The sorcerer remained conscious as they staggered through the trees, away from Morgana's body. And though the sounds of pain that escaped pale lips were the whimpers of a lost child or a wounded animal, if Arthur looked at him he was sure to meet Arthur's eyes with the same nod and smile.

Even when he cried out and stumbled to his knees, pleading breathlessly, "No further, please, Arthur, just let me rest." Even then, he didn't – or wouldn't, maybe – close his eyes and slip into a more peaceful oblivion.

"Did you see Gwaine?" Arthur asked, squatting down as Merlin leaned limply against a tree.

"She knocked him back… maybe ten yards to my… right, from… where we were standing."

"You wait here," Arthur said. If Gwaine was just unconscious, he'd carry him. If he was more severely injured… he didn't know what he'd do.

Merlin bared his teeth in an effort to grin. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.

Arthur pointed his finger in Merlin's face. "I have your promise on that, then," he said seriously, and knew that Merlin understood he was not talking about wandering away and getting lost in the woods.

Arthur took a direct route, back the way he and Merlin had come, past Morgana's body. He found Gwaine crumpled at the foot of a tree, but already starting to move as Arthur approached.

"Gwaine," Arthur called.

The knight groaned and reached groggily to the back of his head, then kept his hand there as he pushed himself up. "Arthur?" he slurred, staggering a bit, then suddenly leaned over and vomited.

"Hey, are you all right?" Arthur said, reaching his side.

Gwaine coughed and spat, twice. "I'm lucky if all I got was a headache," he said. "What about –" He wavered on his feet, and Arthur steadied him with a hand on each shoulder.

"She's dead," Arthur said.

"Your sword?" He nodded, and Gwaine's next question was immediate. "Merlin?"

"She stabbed him," Arthur admitted grimly, and that focused Gwaine's eyes quickly on his face. "He healed himself, but he's in bad shape. Come on," he added, jerking his head to indicate direction. "We'll get to the horses and get some hours behind us before we stop for the night."

Gwaine followed him silently, head down, fingers feeling gently at the back of his head, once or twice stumbling out of the straight line Arthur led him. Hells, what was he supposed to do with _both_ his friends injured badly? He supposed he'd have to retrieve the horses, bring the mounts to the men.

"It'll be nice," Arthur commented. "Find a stream and wash, get a fire going – if we're lucky, a rabbit or two for a real dinner. And no reason to get up and rush off in the morning."

"It'll be a change, at least," Gwaine mumbled.

They skirted the clearing where Morgana's body lay, and found Merlin exactly where Arthur had left him. It looked like he hadn't moved a muscle, but his eyes were still open, and a faint smile curved his lips when he saw them.

"She never touched you," he said to Gwaine, who snorted and barked a laugh.

"Didn't have to, did she?" the knight said, putting his back to a nearby tree and sliding down, cupping his hands around his face to shut out the light, cover his ears against louder noises. "Sorry, Arthur," he added. "I've got to – sit for a minute."

"I'll bring up the horses," Arthur said, and put on a teasing smile. "You two, just - make yourselves comfortable. And enjoy it while it lasts – it won't be every day that you're treated to the service of a king."

"Arthur," Merlin stopped him with the single word. "I won't leave without her. But I can't… get…"

Something very ugly stirred in Arthur's chest. "The witch stays where she fell," he said evenly. "I won't –"

A smile reached Merlin's eyes. "Sire," he said. "There's a ravine. A hundred yards northeast. Leads to an abandoned fox's den under the roots of a twisted oak – that's where I hid her. My dragon's egg."

Arthur huffed a laugh. "Now, _her_ I'll get for you," he said. "Just rest, Merlin. I'll be back soon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

His head ached fiercely, and the sense of dizziness would not leave him, not even when he was seated, with his eyes shut. He could hear a faint resonance, like one blade had lightly struck another.

"Gwaine." That was Merlin's voice, soft and breathless as a shy breeze. Gwaine squinted at the sorcerer, stretched out on the fallen leaves, head propped on a root of the tree that shaded him. Bad shape, Arthur had said. That didn't even begin to describe their friend. He'd take the headache any day over Merlin's condition.

"Need something, Merlin?" he said.

"Your forgiveness?" Merlin said. "I thought… I could talk to her… convince her. Counted on… self-preservation… I was wrong, and then…"

"Stop it, Merlin," Gwaine warned him, trying for a little of his customary cheer. "You did what you thought was right. Morgana's dead, and we're –"

"I haven't the strength to heal you," Merlin interrupted, his voice weak, but somehow able to stop Gwaine speaking anyway. "I had to let her… hurt you. She'd think she was… winning. She'd focus on… me, and never notice… Arthur."

"Well, I was meant to be a distraction," Gwaine told him wryly, and then the devilish grin felt genuine. "Minimal and safe, I told Arthur." Merlin's body trembled with a chuckle or a cough, Gwaine couldn't tell which. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

"Long as… Arthur is safe," Merlin sighed.

"He's lucky to have us," Gwaine agreed. His thoughts felt thick as morning fog before dawn. "Merlin – do you mean to tell me you _let_ her stab you?"

It was a chuckle this time, clear and low, followed by an involuntary whine of pain. Gwaine rolled and crawled to Merlin's side.

"Hey," he said stupidly. A large patch of Merlin's shirt, the size of Gwaine's hand with his fingertips spread, dark and wet, stuck to his right side. "Arthur said you healed yourself."

A look of strain crossed Merlin's face, as though he'd tried to raise his head to look and found he couldn't, but it smoothed away so quickly Gwaine wondered if he'd imagined it in his headachy slowness.

"Must've – broken open," Merlin gasped.

"What do you mean?" Gwaine said, his fingers clumsy as he unfastened Merlin's belt, preparing to examine the wound.

"If I… can't heal your headache…" The young sorcerer laughed, or sobbed. Or both, maybe. "The blade was cursed. Powerful… magic."

"Merlin – _hells_." Gwaine's breath choked in his throat, the first real fear he'd felt in a long time. Merlin was fighting a battle, still, one in which Gwaine's sword and skill would be of absolutely no use.

Blood oozed out of the two-inch gash between ribs that were much too prominent under skin too white. The purple discoloration of bruising spread as high as Gwaine could push Merlin's shirt, down almost to his hipbone, and almost as far to either side.

Headache forgotten, Gwaine cursed, yanking off his own shirt, bundling the material against the wound. Merlin groaned, his face twisting and his eyes squeezing shut. "I… sealed the skin… shut," he gasped. "Arthur told me… but… best I could do."

And the wound had continued to bleed under the skin. "Merlin – dammit, _why_?" he pleaded. Any enemy, _any_, he would gladly take on for this boy, cheerfully, gladly – but this last enemy, he could not.

"Are we ready to ride?" Arthur's voice cut through the desperation that seemed to surround them. He looked up to see the king stride forward, looping the reins of the two mounts over a branch, the clear white-blue of the shell visible at the top of the pouch that bumped at Arthur's hip. "Gwaine, really?" he continued in amused exasperation. "Any excuse to take off your shirt, isn't –"

Gwaine couldn't speak. He lifted the bunched material in his hand to show Arthur the red of fresh blood. The king turned white, rushing to kneel at Merlin's side.

"He told me he healed –" Arthur said stiffly.

"Said all he could manage was to close the skin," Gwaine said. "Didn't stop the bleeding – and then it broke open. He said the blade of the knife was cursed."

Arthur swore, viciously.

Merlin murmured whimsically, "To the last drop of blood in my veins."

"Don't talk," Arthur ordered. He shrugged out of the strap of the dragon-egg pouch, leaped up to retrieve a water-skin and a spare shirt from the saddle of one of the horses, handed the water to Gwaine and began ripping the clean white shirt for bandages. Gwaine unstoppered the water-skin and held it to Merlin's mouth for him to drink.

"Once given, it must be kept… once broken, forever wept," Merlin said to him, then turned his head so he could see Arthur. "I kept mine, your majesty."

"No, you didn't," Arthur said shortly, and Gwaine looked at him, too. "You said, to the last light of magic in your heart."

"Used so much," Merlin whispered. "It's so far away."

"Try again," Arthur ordered roughly.

Merlin's hands rose from the ground, barely an inch, shaking. His head lifted, his eyes flickered bluegoldblue, before he dropped back. Gwaine could not see any change in the wound. He wiped blood from Merlin's side, poured a little water – and more of the thick red liquid seeped onto the white skin. He shook his head at Arthur and applied pressure again.

"We can't travel with him like this," Gwaine said.

"We can't stay here," Arthur responded tersely. And what both of them hadn't said was, _he'll die if we do_.

"Please can we stay… a while," Merlin managed. "I'd rather wait here…"

_Wait for what_, Gwaine didn't ask. He didn't want to know what Merlin thought he was waiting for.

"Okay," Arthur said. "Okay. What would Gaius do for this, Merlin? What about cauterizing it, stop the bleeding?"

"It's too deep," Gwaine told him. "He already tried something similar – it didn't work." He gestured at the bruising visible around the staunching pad of his shirt.

"Tell me what to do for you," Arthur begged the young sorcerer. "What herbs can I get?"

"Goatweed," Merlin said after a moment. "Yarrow, wood betony."

"Okay," Arthur said. "Yarrow I know. What do the others look like?"

"Goatweed has tiny, narrow leaves… yellow-green, with transparent spots. Wood betony looks like… bluebell, with a simple, linear leaf… small round lobes along the edge."

Arthur scrambled up with more energy than he'd shown setting out on the quest for the Fisher King's trident, and dashed away.

Gwaine checked the wound, blinking the dizziness from his eyes. It seemed to him that the edges held together longer, before releasing the thin trickle of blood. He wadded his shirt so a clean part would be next to Merlin's skin, and the sorcerer groaned weakly as he pressed it again to his side.

"Gwaine, could you –"

He noticed that Merlin's hand had crept toward the dragon's egg in its pouch. He leaned forward to snag the strap and haul it close enough for Merlin to touch, but it seemed that wasn't good enough. Merlin's dirty, scratched fingers fumbled at the leather, trying to pull it downward off the egg. Finally Gwaine picked up Merlin's other hand to hold the shirt in place over the wound, and lifted the egg from the pouch himself, setting it where Merlin could both see and touch it.

The shell retained none of the dirt or blood from his hands, Gwaine observed, but remained the clear, flawless white-blue color. Merlin's eyes shone.

"Promise, Gwaine," Merlin whispered. "Be for her a…nother father."

"What does she need two for?" Gwaine said, forcing some lightness into his tone. "Hells, Merlin, you and Kilgarrah are going to spoil her, between the two of –"

"Promise," Merlin insisted.

"What makes you think a dragon's egg is going to listen to me?" Gwaine said. "Or is this the she you think I'll fall in love with to protect me from sorceresses in the future? I'm a confirmed bachelor, Merlin, and –"

"Okay, I got it," Arthur called, jogging up. "Merlin? What do I do to prepare this stuff?"

"Mash it up," Merlin said. "Poultice."

Arthur knelt beside them, taking a length of the bandage he'd torn. He hastily arranged the leaves, pressing them and rolling them together in his fingers to crush the juice and oils free, then wrapping the sticky mess together.

"Little water," Merlin instructed in a whisper. Arthur reached the poultice out, and Gwaine dribbled water on it from the skin.

"It's ready," Arthur said to him. "Now what? We just tie it over the wound?"

"No, don't tie it. Gwaine can just… hold it in place. Or, if he wants to… lie down, he can put his head… on it."

They both stared at their friend. "What do you mean?" the king demanded. "I thought this was for you?"

"Won't do me… any good." Merlin gave them his beautiful intimate smile. "It's for Gwaine's headache."

"Merlin –" Gwaine's voice broke, and he couldn't say more.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The pain had faded. In its place was a hot-water-bottle sensation that was not unpleasant, except that it left his hands and feet cold. He couldn't move much, but he was comfortable, and didn't want to. They'd tied the wad of bandages in place awkwardly and with difficulty, and he didn't want to put any of them through the hassle of repositioning it.

He had Gwaine, sitting where he could see him, reclined against one of the saddles, his head bowed and the poultice held in place where the knight had struck the tree. He had Arthur – tired, discouraged, in need of a hot bath, a warm meal, and a soft bed. He'd have those soon enough. A few more days.

But, by all the gods, his king was uninjured. That was Merlin's triumph. He wore that wound, _the macabre red smile of a wound in his chest drooling blood_ in Arthur's place, gladly and proudly. The choice was his, the sacrifice, the fall. He'd kept his word. One last riddle, then.

"Young dragons are… called into the… world, by the dragonlord," Merlin said, and his friends looked up. The sun was setting, and it gave their skin, their faces, a burnished golden glow. Another radiance called to him inside, faintly but insistently. _Just a moment_, he thought. _Give me just a moment_. "One word to command… familiar stranger. I give… the dragon… a name."

"You're not going to –" Arthur started.

Gwaine said at the same time, "Do you think it's a good idea to –"

Merlin uttered, "Aithusa." He'd known her name since he first saw the egg, on the pedestal in the Fisher King's tower. The one word, the perfect name, soothed a raw desire he hadn't known he could possess so strongly until the moment he'd cupped the egg in his palms.

The tiny consciousness focused swiftly, awareness increasing, sharpening, followed by an immediate and undeniable demand for freedom. The top of the egg, the rounded point of the teardrop, cracked, split. For an instant a fragment of shell balanced on her head, the size of Merlin's fist, ridged, eyes blinking intelligently, inquiringly.

Then the shell burst, Arthur and Gwaine both instinctively ducking and shielding their faces. Merlin kept his eyes on the dragonet, crouching on the one remaining section of shell to spread her wings for the first time. If he'd been standing, she'd have come comfortably around knee height, and able to stretch a little higher.

She was beautiful. She was glorious. She was _white_. The edges of her wings were so fine they were transparent. "A white dragon," Merlin breathed. "Arthur, that's so rare. The white dragon bodes well for Albion. For you. For the land you will build."

"The land we will build together," Arthur reminded him in a low voice, his eyes on the dragonet.

"Her name is Aithusa?" Gwaine said, quietly, as if he feared he might frighten her away.

"I've named her after," Merlin stopped to breathe, "the light of the sun. The morning." Aithusa accepted his presence as an anticipated fact, but chittered curiously, stretching out her wings and turning her head from the king to the knight and back again.

"These are my friends. Sir Gwaine of Camelot. And High King Arthur," Merlin told her. She eyed the other two men, cocking her head and creeping forward a few feet to examine them.

Arthur, absolutely enthralled for the moment, reached his hand out to her, and she retreated to Merlin's knee. "It's okay," Merlin told them both. "It'll take some time."

Aithusa flipped about to examine him, her lord. _Love. Concern. Smell of blood?_

"Yes, I'm hurt, Aithusa," Merlin explained to the hatchling. "But it's nothing for you to worry about. How are your wings? Strong? I need you to –"

_ Worry. Stubborn. Blood. Father lord wrong. Help._

Dainty eyelids clicked shut, and the little white body expanded as a deep breath was drawn in. Then Aithusa opened eyes and mouth – tiny razor-sharp teeth already in place – and _breathed_ on him.

He sighed. It was a joy somehow different to any other he'd ever felt. He thought Hunith might understand best.

_ Frustration. Pout. Blood smell wrong._

"Don't worry," he told her. "You're not meant to heal me. I have another duty for you."

If she were a human girl, Aithusa might have crossed her arms over her chest and scowled, sticking out her lower lip.

Merlin whispered, "_O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup anankes_." The hatchling froze, fascinated, the harsh words whispered caressingly. "_Nun de ge dei s'eikein kai emois_ _epe'essin hepesthai d'e Kilgarrah._"

Aithusa shook herself, unfurled her wings, cocked her head once more at Merlin as if to ask, _are you sure I can't stay_? Then she hopped from his knee to the top of his left boot, flapped in an upward angle, steering around trunks and branches like a natural, heading for the open sky. He could feel the tears sliding down his temples.

He wondered how long her journey would take.

Arthur moved next to him, his back to the tree trunk. "What did you tell her?" he asked, positioning the water-skin where Merlin could take a swallow easily, and he did so, to satisfy his friend.

This close, the golden connection he'd forged with Arthur hummed so strongly it was vibrating, distracting him from the deeper golden call.

"I sent her… to Kilgarrah," he said.

Arthur set down the water-skin, curled his fingers around the back of Merlin's neck, and adjusted the padded saddlebag under his head. "Is that better?" he asked.

"Much," Merlin said. He couldn't tell a difference, but it didn't matter. "Arthur…" When his king had touched him, that golden call had aligned somehow with their connection – it was the same now, there was no choice left to make, he was relieved about that – delving through heart into soul, and further. "I'm proud of you," he said.

Arthur gave him his familiar half-smile pulled self-consciously sideways – but then he understood, and the smile was gone. "Merlin, _no_. Do you hear me? I forbid you –"

"I don't… do what I'm told." He could vaguely feel his body breathing, chest rising, ribs expanding, but the air seemed to do no good once inside his lungs. Because of this, his body worked harder to accomplish a failing respiration, and it made talking more difficult. Arthur lifted him in his arms, propped him against his knee. "You – the once and future – unite…" he gasped. _Just wait_! "I have… stood beside you… protected you…"

"Yes," Arthur said. "You have. My Emrys." His sea-blue eyes were wet, and his voice shook. Merlin wanted to tell him, _don't cry_. But he had more important things to say.

"My life… I gave my life… blood, breath, magic… at your side." He managed a smile. "The sacrifice… my choice. I'm not… sorry."

"Merlin – no, you can't," Arthur ordered.

He felt Gwaine pick up his other hand, and squeezed slightly. _I'm sorry, my friend, but … Arthur_. "You have to… let me go to…" He gasped and panted and for a moment pain swirled madly in his side. Arthur held him more tightly, and it subsided. "When Kilgarrah – he'll know, but you… must… let me go. I have to…"

"You stay," Arthur begged. "No. I'm not letting you go. Merlin? Do you hear me? Merlin!"

The last thing he saw was a tear sliding down the face of his friend, his king, glittering in the last light of the setting sun like a tiny drop of crystal.

It was dark, but he was not afraid. He knew where to go. He followed that golden lifeline that told him now of Arthur's pain and Arthur's grief, that heard his friend saying his name, screaming his name – he longed to reassure him. But he had to retreat, backing away slowly, til he sensed he was on an edge of sorts. And far below, a faint stir of liquid gold.

Merlin put out the arms of his self, his soul. His wings, spread to fly, to drop, to drift, to soar and glide ever towards the hidden golden depths buried.

Eagerly, confidently, he launched himself into the void.

**A/N: Okay, so originally this was all Merlin's pov at the end of last chapter, but I hope it works better this way, as an extra one… as a reminder, there is one more chapter, and it's already started, so tomorrow maybe if we're all lucky…**

**Everyone thank CaraLee934 if you liked Aithusa! Basically, Merlin uses two phrases – the one that commands attention, and the one that sends her off (both used in ep.5.13). And yes, Kilgarrah does refer to Aithusa as **_**he**_** in the ep., but this is my story!**

**As far as the herb-lore goes, it's **_**loosely**_** based on Bartram's Encyclopedia of Herbal Remedy.**

**To un-accounted reviewer Annn, I'm not sure why you read 28 chapters of this story to leave a review that was insulting as well as unproductive… you could have just quit reading if you didn't like my portrayal of the relationship between Arthur and Merlin… **_**Constructive**_** criticism is, as always, welcome.**


	31. Both Now and Always

**A/N: As a thank-you to all my reviewers for NOT getting upset over last chapter and Merlin's death, here's a nice long final chapter!**

**Part III: Albion Games**

**Chapter 11: Both Now and Always**

Arthur didn't move from Merlin's side, all night. Gwaine kept the fire up, which he was thankful for – neither had the heart to cover Merlin's face, and the flickering light of the flames gave the illusion of faint and temporary movement. But Arthur's hand on Merlin's chest trembled at the stillness.

Gwaine slept. Not for more than an hour or two at a time, as both of them had acknowledged the need to treat the knight's head wound with all necessary care. But Arthur was thankful for Gwaine's times of slumber, too.

Then he could drop the pretense of being strong, handling it, coping, managing, accepting. He wept silently, but hard. _It was not meant to be like this_, he thought.

_Albion's time of need is near_, the Fisher King had said. _In that dark hour, you must be strong. You can save her, but you will need help. And that is what I am giving you_.

How the hell was his sword supposed to help, now? He hadn't reached Morgana in time. Too late. Sometimes the duty of a king required that he allow another to make the sacrifice. Uther Pendragon had told him, _if you become king, he will not be the first to die for you_. Gwaine had said something similar in the labyrinth of Gedref.

_ Not this one. All ye gods together, not this one._

What about guiding? He still needed lots of guidance. What about protection? There was still treacherous Odin and weak Alined and the threat of Saxon invasion. How was he supposed to stand alone – well, not actually, but it would always feel like that without Merlin – for the rest of what might be a very long reign?

If he had known that the unification of Albion, the signing of the charter, the delivery of the trident, the drawing of the sword… If he had known the fulfillment of the prophecies had meant that Emrys was no longer considered necessary for the once and future king's destiny, was therefore removed from the story and from the world, he would have – he would have…

Given the trident to Helios and taken Gwaine to Grettir's bridge, to Merlin and Morgana's battle.

Bitten his tongue before he ever spoke to the Fisher King, asking for answers, just taken the trident and gone.

Gotten his riddle wrong on purpose.

Stood his ground and fought, instead of running into the valley of the Fallen Kings.

Sent three damn nameless, faceless knights.

Refused to sign the agreement and returned to prepare Camelot for war.

No. It made him weary unto death to think it, to admit it, but no, it would not have gone much differently. Merlin himself would probably have seen to that. He would have scoffed at the idea of his death, would have pressured and argued Arthur into many of the same decisions, would have made the same choices himself, and taken the same consequences. Honor. Peace. Sacrifice.

Arthur moved his hand from Merlin's chest to touch his first two fingers to his friend's wrist, just below the base of his thumb. Stillness. He moved his hand to Merlin's neck, below the corner of his jaw. Utter stillness. His skin was cool as the air.

Arthur stayed by him. _You are mine, though I could not keep you. No one will take you from me, though you asked me to let you go_.

The forest gradually lightened, life stirring around them. The twitter and song of the birds, the quick rustle and scratch of squirrels. Even the soft frightened thud of a startled rabbit scampering home. And Merlin so damnably still and silent.

Gwaine rolled over and let out a groan. "Hells, have I got a headache fit to beat the –" he stopped, and his eyes sprang open. "What –" He bolted upright, turned to look at Arthur. And Merlin.

"Ye gods, I thought it was a dream," the knight admitted, screwing up his face. Tears shone in his eyes, and he rose and came to kneel on Merlin's other side. He gently touched Merlin's wrist, and neck, laid his ear to the motionless chest. He even produced his knife to hold over Merlin's nostrils. Arthur couldn't help watching, but the metal remained clear, unclouded by breath.

Gwaine turned the knife, sliced through the wrapping holding the wadded and blood-soaked shirt to Merlin's side, and removed the useless bandage. Then he smoothed Merlin's shirt into place, and gently refastened the unneeded belt, before muttering something about preparations, and moving off into the forest.

Dawn broke gently through the trees, bathing Merlin in a golden light. _I've named her after the light of the sun – the morning_. But he'd not see that light again. He'd not see the tiny white dragon again.

He thought then of water, of cleaning the grime from his friend's face… thought of splashing in the stagnant pool at the foot of the Fisher King's plateau, of wiping Merlin's skin as he lay unconscious in the tavern bedchamber. He'd wanted to say something flippant and witty about Merlin washing his hands before tending the arrow wound, but hadn't managed to speak through the pain. _I'll get your dinner and your bath ready for you, sire_, and Merlin cleaning Arthur's own sword with his sleeve, because _it's yours._ He thought of Merlin rinsing the blood on his hands from the wound in Gwaine's thigh in the thin trickle of drinking water. Of Merlin cupping the poisoned well water to drink, that he could give the water back to Arthur pure.

He thought of a thousand different expressions on Merlin's face. Absolute awe as Aithusa was hatched… calm certainty as Arthur laid hold of the sword in the stone…resignation as Gwaine, enchanted, pushed him down. Concentration as he readied vital magic to obey his will... agony as he viewed the crystals. Deep and terrible blankness, moments after his father's death. The near-holy wonder as Arthur raised him from his knee in the sandy arena… stern retribution as he faced the enemy sorcerer in their friend's body. Naïve admiration as he attended a banquet in the presence of a king, his first time outside his tiny farming village.

And now, nothing. Peace and stillness – the absence of any expression whatsoever.

If Arthur concentrated, he could hear his friend's voice in a myriad of tones. _Arthur, you came… I think we should split up… A dragon's egg… There are not any taverns… Don't kill them… An arrow… We must defend Camelot… I can juggle, as well…_

_ I believe in a fair and just land… Gwaine, may I?... Belladonna… What is the meaning of this?... Of the two of us, I'm not the stuffed shirt…_

_ Arthur, please make it quick… I'll light it for you… Just a question of making him lose his concentration, really… Stop, it's poisoned!... Just shoot me for the idiot I am… Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one… May the best man win… I came for the grain…_

_ Arthur of Camelot. Sire. Arthur! Arthur? Arthur._

He could hear Merlin so clearly it hurt. Earnest, with just a suggestion of laughter, just a hint of sarcasm. _Easy, Arthur. Calm down. We'll figure it out_.

He looked down. Nothing had changed. Merlin hadn't moved. No breath in that body had prompted those words.

Arthur picked up the water-skin next to him, poured a handful out over his sleeve, and turned to use it on Merlin's face. Gently wiping blood, and dirt, soot, grime, sweat. It wasn't enough.

"Arthur." Gwaine spoke behind him. He didn't look up from his useless ministrations. "Arthur, I wanted to show you – I thought you should see, in case – well, will you come with me for a minute?"

It was strange for the smooth-tongued knight to be so hesitant. Arthur stood and stepped back, finding himself curiously reluctant to put distance between himself and Merlin. He hated to leave him here, alone. "What about –" he gestured at the body of their friend.

"He'll be fine," Gwaine said quietly. "There's no one around but us."

Arthur glanced back as Gwaine led him a short distance away, but nothing changed about the campsite, the smoke rising and drifting from the firepit the only movement. Then Gwaine stopped, and moved sideways out of Arthur's way.

"I know it's not what he deserved, but –" Gwaine said apologetically – "it's the best I could do, and – I think he'd understand."

For a moment Arthur stared, at the long low platform, at the lengths of dried branches, dead sticks and twigs piled up around it, and didn't comprehend what he saw. Then realization kicked him in the gut and he wanted to vomit.

A pyre. Gwaine had built a pyre. For Merlin. For their friend. He thought they would lay Merlin's body out on the platform, light the dead kindling, and –

Arthur stepped forward slowly, as if in a dream. A nightmare. He put his hand on one of the branches, its end broken jaggedly to make its length match the others. It shifted under his hand, and his fingers curled to grasp it. He lifted it free from the pyre, hefted it once to get a feel for the balance.

Then he hurled it as far from him as he was able. He selected another and flung it away, and another.

Part of him said, _Gwaine is right. Gwaine worked hard to prepare an honorable funeral for him. It isn't rational or respectful to destroy his work like this._

Another part of him snarled at that part.

"Arthur!" Gwaine was so close he had to duck the last branch Arthur threw, then caught his arms. There was a look of concern on his face – gaunt face, with red-rimmed eyes. Arthur supposed that he looked just as bad.

"We're not burning him, Gwaine," Arthur said, as steadily as he could manage. It wasn't Gwaine's fault, he didn't know, he couldn't know. Once that first year, Uther in a fit of anger had threatened to burn Merlin at the stake, even going so far as to imprison Merlin for two days and have the preparations for the stake begun in the square visible from the cell. Only Arthur and Gaius knew how long it had been til the nightmares ceased plaguing the young sorcerer.

"You want to dig him a grave?" Gwaine said uncertainly. "Raise a cairn of rocks over him?"

"No, I do not want to bury him!" Arthur tried not to raise his voice, but he didn't try very hard.

"But sire," Gwaine said, in the most gentle voice Arthur had ever heard the roguish knight use. "Merlin is dead."

"Just because he's dead does not mean he's gone!" Arthur shouted, then tightened his grip on self-control. "Gwaine, I understand, and I appreciate it, really I do, but… not now. Just… excuse me." He turned to head back to Merlin's side. Yes, he was king and would have to acknowledge certain terrible facts. Eventually. But not yet.

He was close enough to the campsite to see that everything was as they'd left it – what? did he expect Merlin to hop up and start tidying, packing? – Gwaine accompanying him silently, when a strange sound caught their attention.

It was a slow, steady thumping noise, just on the edge of hearing but somehow powerful and insistent. Arthur's head turned toward the clearing; from the corner of his eye he saw Gwaine do the same. They broke into a run at the same time, skidding to a stop at the edge of the open area where Merlin had first fallen.

Kilgarrah hovered with a vigorous beating of his wings, stirring eddies and whirls and drafts of leaves and dust for yards around. He dipped his head toward the black-clad body of the witch, still lying crumpled where Arthur had left her, then opened his maw and released an enormous gout of fire.

Even a good twenty feet away, Gwaine and Arthur shielded their faces from the heat of the blaze, which went on, and on. Several minutes passed, and when the dragonfire ceased and Kilgarrah landed, there was no sign of Morgana save a great circle of burned-bare earth.

"High King," the great dragon spoke gravely to Arthur, bowing a head the size of Grettir's hut. "I greet you. Well done in your quest. And Sir Gwaine, the rare strength of body, mind, and heart."

"Kilgarrah," Arthur said, inclining his head. His throat felt tight. "I wish we were speaking under better circumstances. I suppose you have means to know this for yourself, but – Merlin is dead."

"Aithusa mentioned the wounding of our dragonlord," Kilgarrah was enigmatic as always.

"Aithusa?" Arthur said. "She reached you then?" That meant the little hatchling had made the two-day trip to Camelot in a matter of hours.

"I have instructed her to wait there for my return," Kilgarrah replied. "She is eager and willing, but she is very young. Now, to the purpose of my flight."

Gwaine spoke up, "Merlin said the knife was cursed with powerful magic." Arthur heard in the knight's voice the same hope that had begun to whisper in his own mind. Aithusa had tried and failed, but perhaps Kilgarrah…

The great dragon lowered his head to Arthur's level, and breathed deeply, almost as if he was smelling Arthur – and he was suddenly, ridiculously self-conscious about how long he'd gone without a thorough bath.

"His heart has stopped and he is no longer breathing," Kilgarrah said. Arthur's eyes stung and his throat closed, but he met the ancient beast's eye and nodded. "But that is not all, is it, young king? Tell me, what does the instinct of your heart have to say about Emrys?"

_ Emrys, Merlin scoffed, then sighed heavily. Ah – so be it. But could you please just call me Merlin? _Arthur heard his friend's voice so clearly he turned, and was surprised that only Gwaine stood there. There was something deep down – his heart? yes, maybe – that felt oddly at rest, at ease… at peace.

"I can't quite believe," he started softly; was it just stubbornness, a refusal to accept the truth? "My heart tells me, he can't be gone."

"Your heart does you credit, young king," Kilgarrah said. "You begin to feel him the way he has felt you, since he forged the bond between your souls in preparation for the challenge of the labyrinth."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said. Beside him, Gwaine leaned forward on his toes, just a little, the discouraged weariness giving way to a keener attention for both of them.

"He was quite unaware of the consequences of that instinctive action," Kilgarrah said. "Prophecies are rarely fulfilled by those intending to do so – only in retrospect does the fulfillment become clear. Your souls have become bonded – although I suppose it could be argued that no spell was necessary for that –"

"Kilgarrah," Arthur interrupted. _Damn, dragon, for once in your life speak straight. "What do you mean_?"

"You and he are two sides of one coin," Kilgarrah said pleasantly, taking neither offense nor hint. "One side does not, and cannot, exist without the other."

"You mean Arthur's going to die too?" Gwaine exclaimed in dismay.

"You mean," Arthur said, in a voice low and intense, "that Merlin – isn't dead?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Kilgarrah said with incongruous amusement. "I would be very surprised if my young warlock's two best friends were both mistaken about so vital a detail. But –" a dry, smoky chuckle puffed over Arthur from the old dragon's nostrils – "just because he is dead, does not mean he is gone."

_Just because I'm dead, Arthur, Merlin said, amused yet sympathetic. I solemnly swear to serve and protect my lord to the best of my abilities as a sorcerer and a man, both now and always. _

Both, now and always.

"What?" Gwaine said, sounding as confused as Arthur felt.

"Bring Emrys here, to me," Kilgarrah said, settling his weight composedly.

Arthur didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel, yanking Gwaine along, back toward their campsite. "What do you think he's going to do?" Gwaine asked, trotting alongside.

"Remember what Merlin told Aithusa before he sent her to Kilgarrah?" Arthur said. " 'You were not meant to heal me.' "

"You think – Kilgarrah could heal Merlin?" Gwaine said, and hurried past Arthur to approached Merlin's body. Arthur circled the firepit to retrieve the swordbelt and immortal blade, and joined Gwaine, each on one side of their friend.

"Get under his arm," Arthur said, belting his sword into place. "Then we'll lift him." He crouched down, picked up Merlin's arm by the wrist, and tucked it snugly around his neck. Hope warred with despair at the coolness of that touch, but there was none of the unnatural stiffness Arthur had feared to find.

Merlin's head rolled back as Gwaine did the same on Merlin's other side, and Arthur reached to steady him with a handful of matted black hair, easing his head forward, chin to chest. Comfort wasn't really a consideration – but dignity, Arthur felt, was.

"Look out for his legs," he added, as he and Gwaine stood, drawing Merlin's body upwards.

"He's so _long_," Gwaine protested. "His feet'll drag no matter what we do."

"Come on, then," Arthur said, and they started out.

They went slowly and carefully, as they wouldn't have done, Arthur reflected with melancholy amusement, in life. Had Merlin been merely sleeping or unconscious, they'd have yanked and bundled him about. When they returned to the clearing, Gwaine tucked Merlin's other arm close to his body as Arthur lowered him, then arranged his limbs.

Arthur straightened to address Kilgarrah. "You can heal him, then?" he asked, suddenly sounding hoarse.

A rumble of wry humor sounded within the great chest cavity. "No one can heal death, high king," Kilgarrah told him. "We can, however, _call him back_."

Arthur felt a sob, or a laugh, catch in his throat. "Yes – how? Whatever I can do–"

"I will fly him to a place," Kilgarrah said. "The birthplace of magic itself. The Crystal Cave. However, I am old and I am tired. I can carry only Emrys and the king."

"It's all right," Gwaine said, turning to clasp Arthur's forearm as he reciprocated the gesture. "I'll get the horses packed and join you in the valley as soon as I'm able." He knelt and put his hand over Merlin's heart, just for a moment. "Take care of him."

"I will," Arthur said. "Til then." He turned, and Kilgarrah bent his head for Arthur to scramble up awkwardly, straddling the dragon's neck just forward of the wings and just behind the ridge of the skull. Kilgarrah's body was skin and scale and muscle and bone – much more uncomfortable than a horse's back without the saddle. It didn't matter. Arthur would ride the length and the breadth of the five kingdoms as many times as necessary in as much discomfort as necessary for the smallest hope of Merlin's return.

The dragon curled his claws around Merlin's body, covering him from shoulders to hips. As he raised the sorcerer's body, Merlin's head and legs both drooped down. Arthur was about to suggest an arrangement more similar to how he and Gwaine had carried Merlin on horseback after he'd lost consciousness fighting the manticore. Then Kilgarrah gave a great leap, and they were airborne.

The motion of a flying dragon was completely different from the gaits of a horse. And a horse would not attempt conversation – but Arthur wasn't loathe to talk to Kilgarrah, to tell him the whole story of the quest. It kept his mind off the altitude, the unnatural speed of the wind in his face, the gut-wrenching rise and drop of the dragon's body as the wings flapped. He'd never understand the exhilaration Merlin had described after his flight with the great beast.

Kilgarrah was especially intrigued by the details of the visit with the Fisher King, and Merlin's handling of Aithusa's egg. "Do you know, high king," the dragon remarked, "his father never had the privilege of hatching a dragon? Balinor's father passed after men began to war against the dragons, and our numbers, never high, were already greatly decimated by the time Balinor became a dragonlord."

"So you are no longer the last of your kind," Arthur commented.

"It would seem not," Kilgarrah said ironically. "No dragon birth is without meaning. Sometimes the meaning is hard to see, but this time, I believe, it is clear. The white dragon bodes well for Albion."

Merlin had said the same thing. That reminded Arthur of other words Merlin had said. _You have to… let me go _to… as if he had a place in mind. _When Kilgarrah… he'll know_, Merlin had said. _You must let me go. I have to_… what? Had Merlin guessed or anticipated this?

His thoughts were interrupted by the great dragon tilting downward in a glide to the earth. Arthur looked past Kilgarrah's jaw to see the jagged scar on the landscape that was the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Kilgarrah wheeled and dove for a place wide enough to accommodate his landing, and Arthur was both pleased and unsteady when he was able to dismount. The ancient beast seemed at the end of his strength as he placed Merlin's body on the moss.

"I leave you here, then, High King Arthur," he said. "I will return to Camelot, my cave and the new dragonet."

"I will be sure to see you there," Arthur said. "Thank you." He shielded his face from the swirl of detritus as the dragon leaped up and the huge wings thumped to keep him airborne and climb to a preferred flying altitude. He watched the dragon disappear behind the edges of the treetops, and when he turned, he found that Merlin had been raised in the arms of an old man in a brown robe, with curly white hair and beard, and an expression of absolute sincerity.

"My name is Taliesin," he said simply. "I am pleased to be able to speak to you, High King Arthur. You have done well to bring Emrys here – come with me."

Arthur followed Taliesin into the triangular hole in the ground, the old man carrying Merlin's lanky body as easily as if he'd been carrying a child. "You know Merlin, then?" Arthur asked.

"I met Emrys days ago," Taliesin answered.

When they'd traveled through the cave, Arthur realized. He'd been shot with an arrow, and Alator had been killed, and Morgana had trapped them with a cave-in. He hoped he had done well, bringing Merlin back to such a place.

"I didn't see you," he objected.

Taliesin turned to smile gently over his shoulder. "I wasn't meant to interact with you at that time," he said. "It wasn't clear to me whether the two of you would return, like this… and while I am sorry for your loss and your sadness, King Arthur, I am grateful for the opportunity to speak to the once and future king." He gave a little bow, and continued deeper into the cave.

Arthur followed, noting the faint blue glow growing stronger. "Did Morgana see you?" he asked.

"I was seen by the witch, and the druid," Taliesin responded. "They each were confronted with the identity of Emrys." He turned again, as if to present Merlin's body to Arthur, and bowed over it in a quaintly reverent way. "Their choices, however, though freely made, were vastly dissimilar."

"Alator accepted Merlin as Emrys?" Arthur said, then realized, "That was why he didn't want to leave the druid's body. But Morgana –"

"She hated him, and sought to destroy him, thus bringing about the doom she feared," Taliesin said. He stopped and turned, and over his shoulder Arthur could see the actual crystals, not just the reflected glow. "I told him to use what he saw for good."

"Wait – he saw visions in the crystals, when we were here, before?" Arthur said. Neither he nor Gwaine had, they'd assumed there was nothing to see. _Hells, Merlin, and you never said…_

"I believe he has, and will continue to do so," the old man said. "I can go no further." Taliesin indicated his desire to pass Merlin into Arthur's arms, and Arthur accepted willingly. "You may or may not see another. You may wait some moments, or – you may wait longer."

_As long as it takes_, Arthur vowed. "Thank you," he said. The old man smiled, bowed his head, and stepped back – to vanish completely from Arthur's sight.

Arthur continued into the main chamber, down to the sandy floor in the center, and gently lowered his friend.

_Merlin, look at me. Focus on me. Easy, now. Are you with me? Are you with me?_

And he waited.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Existence was golden, the world woven of magic. Merlin, incorporeal, reveled in the purity, the abundance. He swam through the magic like a fish gamboled like a bird stretching and soaring. It was to his magic sense like fresh cool air with the scent of fallen leaves in the autumn, like the warm breath of spring, green shoots and damp earth. Like the herbs and pages of Gaius' chamber, pungent and potent and life-saving.

It was to his heart like the laughter of the knights around the campfire, and Arthur finally relenting and grinning with their jokes. Like the clear sea-blue eyes of the king, incredulous at finding both of them alive once more together. The reflection of a unique hilt in their depths as the king looked to him and said, _me, really_?

He paused, listening. Remembering. The magic, this timeless golden wonderland where he existed, was not an ends, but a means. _Magic is my gift – and I give it to you._

He heard something else, an echo of memory calling to him. _Did you hit your head?... Would you like me to come?... This is a quest, _Mer_lin, not a treasure hunt… A sword… I told you we'd outrun them… Is there any other way out of this situation?... That's your knees knocking together… I saw failure… Easy, Merlin, we'll figure it out… Now you are mine, and no one can take you away from me… You're one of the bravest men I've ever met… Just bandaged your wound, idiot… There's something about you, I can't quite put my finger on… _

_ Merlin. Merlin? Merlin!_

_Do not let go_. It was a different voice, older, rougher, but just as familiar and just as loved. _Do not accept defeat. Fight. Let hope into your heart_.

_But my fight is over_, he objected. _ The sacrifice – the fall – giving my life – I thought…_

_ Ah. But your life will not end in death. Life can be _given_ while it is _lived_. _

He began to understand, and resisted_. I should return to Arthur's side for who-knows how long? only to wait centuries alone for the future time of the once and future king?_

_Albion is young_. He had a brief memory of a knee-high white dragon, still wearing a clinging piece of her shell, cocking her head curiously at him. _It is much the same responsibility, that of a dragonlord, that of a king. Many years and long will Arthur rule, times of glory and tragedy, winning peace through the suffering of war. And when he goes to his rest, so will you. You will return here, and this will be your waiting as the centuries turn, until your king calls for you again... Awaken, my son, into the light._

Merlin opened his eyes to a glow just as intense and pervasive as the golden world he'd left behind – or perhaps, he'd merely tucked it away again inside himself, like a child tucks an enchanting toy away in his pocket. For now.

A shadow moved, and his father's face came into focus. Balinor smiled at him. _I am so proud of you, my son. I am with you, and always will be, and no one can ever take that from you._ The blue of the crystals shone from his father.

He understood. There were no goodbyes between creatures of magic, as he and his father were. _Someday, father, I will return_. He couldn't help grinning. _You will forgive me if I hope it is a very long time until then?_

His father smiled back. _The longer the better_. He stepped back and faded from sight.

Merlin's hand explored his right side, found the slit in his shirt, felt the stiffness of dried blood on the fabric. The small ridge of a scar between his third and fourth ribs. He breathed, and felt no pain, not there, not anywhere.

He turned his head to the side, where the golden connection told him Arthur lay. The king was sleeping, his skin blue-lit by the crystals. A small stern wrinkle lay between his brows, and his hand rested on the hilt of the immortal blade.

Part of Merlin wanted to roll over, shuffle up next to Arthur, and go back to sleep himself. But there were things to be done. He flung out his hand, his knuckles thumping gently on Arthur's ribs.

"Arthur," he said softly. "Rise and shine."

Arthur grunted, then groaned, as he always did when waking, and Merlin grinned at the familiarity of it. "Hells, Merlin," he mumbled. "I need the rest. Didn't sleep at all last night because you –" Arthur stopped speaking, stopped moving. Maybe even stopped breathing. But he didn't open his eyes.

"I don't see how that's my fault," Merlin objected, rolling over and pushing himself to his feet. He felt slower and clumsier than he normally did, but it was an agreeable lethargy. "I wasn't making _noise_, wasn't moving _around_…"

Arthur's eyes flew open in delighted astonishment. "Merlin! You're –"

"Alive," Merlin acknowledged, reaching a hand down to his king, who eyed it uncertainly. "Yes. Not a vision." He waggled his fingers in a wordless invitation, and Arthur grasped his hand to be pulled to his feet.

"Alive," Arthur breathed, his eyes wandering in childish surprise over Merlin's face. He didn't immediately let go of Merlin's hand.

"For now," Merlin joked. For always… but he didn't need to think of that, yet. "For as long as you need me, evidently." He shrugged.

Arthur put his hands on Merlin's shoulders as if he still couldn't quite believe it, then tugged him into a fierce hug. "For the rest of my life, you hear me?"

"Yes, sire," Merlin said, then laughed softly. "Long live the king."

…..*….. …..*….. EPILOGUE …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine was late. But it wasn't his fault. He hoped the other knights – Leon, Percival, Elyan – were as hung-over as he was, this morning. Served them right, buying round after round of drinks, trying to make him keep his promise to tell the whole story over a tankard of ale in the tavern.

"I'm sworn to secrecy, lads," he'd protested, grinning. "Arthur would have my head if I told you, and he'd give it to Geoffrey as an ornament for the library. I don't care to be mounted between shelves of books for the rest of my life."

"If Arthur took your head," Leon had answered reasonably, "you'd be dead. You wouldn't care where you were."

"You might prefer that," Percival had added mildly, "to what we have in mind, if you don't talk."

Talk he could, and would, and did. But not one word of the story passed his lips. Truth be told, he was looking forward to this morning's meeting of the round table – the first such since they'd returned from the field of meeting – and the reading of Geoffrey's finished manuscript.

He turned into the corridor leading to the council chamber, struggling with the fastening on his red ceremonial knights' cape, then slowed his steps. Halfway along the hall, sauntering as if they had all the time in the world, Merlin and Arthur. His two best mates – since someone like him actually could call the high king of Albion and Dragonlord Emrys _mate_.

The fingers of Arthur's right hand entwined with those of Lady Guinevere as they chatted leisurely, happily. Gwaine was one of a handful who knew that one of the other items on the agenda for the meeting was to inform the council and distinguished guests of their engagement.

Merlin, just behind and to Arthur's left, as always, walked in step with Freya, his arm around her shoulder and his hand at her waist. Her own arm was around him also, but tucked inside the ankle-length sleeveless robe of light creamy brown he wore over his blue shirt and brown trousers, the garment just perfect to lend dignity to the lanky form without making him feel self-conscious. His head was bent low over that of the druid girl, their dark hair blending together.

Gwaine quickened his steps til he was only six feet or so behind them, like an honor guard. That way he wouldn't get in trouble for being late.

Without looking, Arthur reached his left hand back. Without turning his attention from his lady, Merlin handed Arthur a bouquet of purple wildflowers – something Gwaine would have sworn the sorcerer did not have in his possession a moment before. Arthur presented the bouquet to Gwen, who smiled and blushed. An instant later, Gwaine glimpsed a delicate red rosebud in Merlin's long fingers, and the pale curve of Freya's cheek indicated her shy pleasure. Gwaine laughed under his breath – if he ever went wooing seriously, he'd bring Merlin along to pull flowers from thin air for him, too.

Three paces ahead of them, two older women, dressed in fine yet sensible gowns turned inward toward each other to look back simultaneously at the two couples. Ygraine's smile was tremulous, and she reached to brush away a tear. Hunith caught Gwaine's eye, behind her son, and she chuckled as he rolled his eyes ostentatiously.

"Gwaine," Merlin murmured. "Wouldn't do that, if I were you." The sorcerer gave Gwaine an impish grin over his shoulder. "I haven't forgotten _your_ need to fall in love."

Gwaine grimaced at him, but they had reached the doorway, and the herald was announcing them, introducing the ladies Ygraine and Hunith as the mothers of the two most powerful men in Albion. Then it was, His Majesty, High King Arthur, and Lady Guinevere, Emrys Lord Merlin and Lady Freya.

He didn't rate a public introduction, himself, but slipped into place at the round table between Leon and Percival, both stoically pale. Elyan, one down from Percival, had his head in his hands. Gaius eyed them with disapproval, and Gwine wondered whether it would be worth incurring the old man's scolding – and the foul aftertaste – to ask for the remedy for headache.

Merlin leaned forward to look at them around the others seated between, and grinned in keen perception. Then his eyes glowed gold, and Gwaine's headache immediately eased. Leon and Percival sighed simultaneously, and Elyan lifted his head. For someone who rarely drank, Merlin did have a sympathy for a headache, Gwaine thought appreciatively.

Beside Gaius, Geoffrey was shuffling the pages of his manuscript in preparation for the presentation of his report. It was a task he'd taken very seriously in the week they'd been back, Gwaine could testify to that. He himself had been closeted with the librarian and court record-keeper one whole afternoon and into the evening. Geoffrey hadn't been satisfied with the simple, almost flippant version of events Gwaine had described, and had questioned him minutely and shrewdly until Gwaine couldn't think of a single word to add, and felt as emotionally exhausted as if he'd re-lived the events of several days in a few short hours.

He could only imagine what Geoffrey had gone through with Arthur and Merlin.

Beyond the two oldest council members sat Queen Annis, and representatives of kings Odin and Alined, invited out of courtesy to the kingdoms who'd pledged – however reluctantly – their allegiance to High King Arthur.

There was no head of the round table – that was the idea. No system of rank, to keep each person aware of his status relative to those around him. But with Merlin at his right hand, King Arthur _was_ the head of the table. Gwaine wondered briefly how the dynamic might change if Merlin were to sit halfway around the table, across from Arthur.

Then Arthur cleared his throat. Everyone fell into an expectant silence, and Arthur nodded to Geoffrey, who called the meeting to order with a reminder of the date and the respective invited guests, before turning back to the king.

Arthur spoke without preamble, without rising. "I have," he said, "received several inquiries as to the placement of and intentions for, the priceless artifacts earned by Camelot on this latest quest. The trident is affixed and guarded there." He gestured to the wall, where the three-pronged trident that Gwaine had carried for two days gleamed, new-polished. "We keep it in honor and memory of the ancient king whose reign it symbolizes, and in continued hopes that his land will heal. As for the sword, the immortal blade, it was and is meant for use, not merely display. It resides in the royal armory in its own case, until such time as I may have need of it again."

"What protections have been put on the case?" one of the council members spoke up.

"I locked it," Merlin answered the question simply.

Odin's representative scoffed. "What guarantee is a lock against theft?" he said.

"Sir," Gwaine said deliberately, "_Merlin_ locked it."

The man opened his mouth to argue, but glanced around the room, seeming to realize that he was in the minority to question the effectiveness of Merlin's security.

Arthur waited a moment to see if there were any further questions, then gestured permission to Geoffrey to continue. Gwaine leaned forward in his seat.

"Your majesties, my lords, ladies, and knights," Geoffrey said. "I am privileged to present to you an accounting of the events leading up to the unprecedented accord of union between the five kingdoms of Albion." Geoffrey shuffled his manuscript in the silence a little more for effect, then puffed up his chest importantly, opened his mouth, and –

A flurry of activity shook one of the windows of the chamber, startling some and interrupting the old librarian. Merlin turned to the window; Arthur turned to Merlin. The nearest guard on duty snapped to attention, waiting for orders – but the window's latch lifted, the panes swung inward on their own, and the white dragon, the size of a lapdog, her wingspan already equal to a man's arms outstretched, darted into the room.

Aithusa was becoming a familiar sight in Camelot, so no one took alarm, though everyone's eyes followed her as she zoomed around the table, her lower wingtip barely clearing the heads of those seated there. She knew she was special and beautiful, Gwaine thought with a grin – and how does that knowledge _not_ make a female a little vain?

"Aithusa," Merlin said warningly, rising in his place. He'd gotten quite good at scolding the hatchling when she got carried away with her antics at inopportune times. Gwaine still couldn't help himself chuckling – and quite honestly, didn't see the point in trying. He was more like an uncle than a father – he was free to laugh all day at Aithusa's little quirks of naughtiness.

With a little flit of her wings, she landed in the center of the table – right atop the inlay of the golden dragon of Camelot.

"Aithusa," Merlin said again, and spoke a few more sentences in dragon-tongue. The room was absolutely quiet, the reactions of all those present priceless. Displeasure from the old council, the representatives of the kings. Surprised resignation from Gaius and Geoffrey, grudging admiration from the only other female at the table, Queen Annis. Boyish glee from the knights. Patient amusement from Arthur.

The little white dragon turned gracefully to the high king, and bowed with all the dignity of the larger and older Kilgarrah. Arthur nodded gravely in response, and Merlin stepped aside. Aithusa hopped her way to where the four ladies of the royal household sat. She inclined her head to Hunith, and Gwen and Freya both reached like they wanted to pet the little creature. Ygraine smiled but straightened, turning her attention back to the table.

Arthur drummed his fingers and quirked an eyebrow at Merlin.

"My apologies, Master Geoffrey," Merlin said as he seated himself, giving the table at large an incorrigible grin, then added, "It won't happen again."

Geoffrey cleared his throat again.

"Merlin was in the fields when the messenger arrived," he began. "All of Ealdor was in the fields, except for the oldest of the old watching the youngest babies and toddlers. They watched the messenger, too, waiting impatiently until the workday was over and the people returned to the torch-lit center of the village. Not even a king's messenger could disrupt a day's work, here…"

**A/N: It's so much fun to write a death scene that's not really a death scene! Gratuitous whump and comfort all around! Okay, so thanks to everyone who made this story and this experience so epic for me – reviews, favorites, follows – it grew and grew and I'm so happy with the result! Tired happy… :D**

**Also, some dialogue from ep.4.4 "Aithusa", and 5.13 "The Diamond of the Day".**


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